A 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

JOHN      B    U   C    H   A  N 


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By  JOHN  BUCHAN 


The 


POWER-HOUSE 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY  •  BOSTON 
tTfje  XUbenftoe  $ress  Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,  191 6,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED  INCLUDING  THE  RIGHT  TO  REPRODUCE 
THIS  BOOK  OR  PARTS  THEREOF  IN  ANY  FORM 


PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


TO 
MAJOR-GENERAL 

Sir  FRANCIS  LLOYD,  K.C.B. 


MY  DEAR  GENERAL: 

A  recent  tale  of  mine  has,  I  am  told,  found  favour  in 
the  dug-outs  and  billets  of  the  British  front,  as  being 
sufficiently  short  and  sufficiently  exciting  for  men  who 
have  little  leisure  to  read.  My  friends  in  that  uneasy 
region  have  asked  for  more.  So  I  have  printed  this  story, 
written  in  the  smooth  days  before  the  war,  in  the  hope 
that  it  may  enable  an  honest  man  here  and  there  to  forget 
for  an  hour  the  too  urgent  realities.  I  have  put  your 
name  on  it,  because  among  the  many  tastes  which  we 
share  one  is  a  liking  for  precipitous  yarns. 

J.B. 


M735588 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface  by  the  Editor ix 

CHAPTER 

I.    Beginning  of  the  Wild-Goose  Chase  13 

II.     I  First  Hear  of  Mr.  Andrew  Lumley  31 

III.  Tells  of  a  Midsummer  Night    ...  53 

IV.  I   Follow  the  Trail  of  the   Super- 

Butler     87 

V.     I  Take  a  Partner 113 

VI.    The  Restaurant  in  Antioch  Street    .  135 

VII.     I  Find  Sanctuary 163 

VIII.    The  Power-House 189 

IX.     Return  of  the  Wild  Geese  ....  209 


PREFACE  BY  THE  EDITOR 

We  were  at  Glenaicill — six  of  us — for  the  duck- 
shooting,  when  Leithen  told  us  this  story.  Since 
five  in  the  morning  we  had  been  out  on  the  sker- 
ries, and  had  been  blown  home  by  a  wind  which 
threatened  to  root  the  house  and  its  wind-blown 
woods  from  their  precarious  lodgment  on  the  hill. 
A  vast  nondescript  meal,  luncheon  and  dinner  in 
one,  had  occupied  us  till  the  last  daylight  departed, 
and  we  settled  ourselves  in  the  smoking-room  for 
a  sleepy  evening  of  talk  and  tobacco. 

Conversation,  I  remember,  turned  on  some  of 
Jim's  trophies  which  grinned  at  us  from  the  firelit 
walls,  and  we  began  to  spin  hunting  yarns.  Then 
Hoppy  Bynge,  who  was  killed  next  year  on  the 
Bramaputra,  told  us  some  queer  things  about  his 
doings  in  New  Guinea,  where  he  tried  to  climb 
Carstensz,  and  lived  for  six  months  in  mud.  Jim 
said  he  couldn't  abide  mud — anything  was  better 
than  a  country  where  your  boots  rotted.  (He  was 
to  get  enough  of  it  last  winter  in  the  Ypres  Sa- 
lient.) You  know  how  one  tale  begets  another, 
and  soon  the  whole  place  hummed  with  odd  recol- 

ix 


PREFACE  BY  THE  EDITOR 

lections,  for  five  of  us  had  been  a  good  deal  about 
the  world. 

All  except  Leithen,  the  man  who  was  afterwards 
Solicitor-General,  and,  they  say,  will  get  to  the 
Woolsack  in  time.  I  don't  suppose  he  had  ever 
been  farther  from  home  than  Monte  Carlo,  but 
he  liked  hearing  about  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

Jim  had  just  finished  a  fairly  steep  yarn  about 
his  experiences  on  a  Boundary  Commission  near 
Lake  Chad,  and  Leithen  got  up  to  find  a  drink. 

"Lucky  devils,,,  he  said.  "You've  had  all  the 
fun  out  of  life.  I've  had  my  nose  to  the  grind- 
stone ever  since  I  left  school." 

I  said  something  about  his  having  all  the  honour 
and  glory. 

"All  the  same,"  he  went  on,  "I  once  played  the 
chief  part  in  a  rather  exciting  business  without 
ever  once  budging  from  London.  And  the  joke 
of  it  was  that  the  man  who  went  out  to  look  for 
adventure  only  saw  a  bit  of  the  game,  and  I  who 
sat  in  my  chambers  saw  it  all  and  pulled  the 
strings.  'They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and 
wait,'  you  know." 

Then  he  told  us  this  story.  The  version  I  give 
is  one  he  afterwards  wrote  down  when  he  had 
looked  up  his  diary  for  some  of  the  details. 


CHAPTER  I 

BEGINNING  OF  THE  WILD-GOOSE 
CHASE 


CHAPTER  I 

BEGINNING  OF  THE  WILD-GOOSE  CHASE 

T  T  all  started  one  afternoon,  early  in  May, 
*  when  I  came  out  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons with  Tommy  Deloraine.  I  had  got  in 
by  an  accident  at  a  by-election,  when  I  was 
supposed  to  be  fighting  a  forlorn  hope,  and  as 
I  was  just  beginning  to  be  busy  at  the  Bar  I 
found  my  hands  pretty  full.  It  was  before 
Tommy  succeeded,  in  the  days  when  he  sat 
for  the  family  seat  in  Yorkshire,  and  that  aft- 
ernoon he  was  in  a  powerful  bad  temper.  Out 
of  doors  it  was  jolly  spring  weather,  there  was 
greenery  in  Parliament  Square  and  bits  of 
gay  colour,  and  a  light  wind  was  blowing  up 
from  the  river.  Inside  a  dull  debate  was 
winding  on,  and  an  advertising  member  had 
been  trying  to  get  up  a  row  with  the  Speaker. 
The  contrast  between  the  frowsy  place  and 
the  cheerful  world  outside  would  have  im- 

13 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

pressed  even  the  soul  of  a  Government  Whip. 

Tommy  sniffed  the  spring  breeze  like  a  su- 
percilious stag. 

"This  about  finishes  me,"  he  groaned. 
"What  a  juggins  I  am  to  be  mouldering  here! 
Joggleberry  is  the  celestial  limit,  what  they 
call  in  happier  lands  the  pink  penultimate. 
And  the  frowst  on  those  back  benches!  Was 
there  ever  such  a  moth-eaten  old  museum?" 

"It  is  the  Mother  of  Parliaments,"  I  ob- 
served. 

"Damned  monkey-house,"  said  Tommy.  "I 
must  get  off  for  a  bit,  or  I'll  bonnet  Joggle- 
berry  or  get  up  and  propose  a  national  monu- 
ment to  Guy  Fawkes,  or  something  silly." 

I  did  not  see  him  for  a  day  or  two,  and 
then  one  morning  he  rang  me  up  and  peremp- 
torily summoned  me  to  dine  with  him.  I 
went,  knowing  very  well  what  I  should  find. 
Tommy  was  off  next  day  to  shoot  lions  on  the 
Equator,  or  something  equally  unconscien- 
tious. He  was  a  bad  acquaintance  for  a  placid 
sedentary  soul  like  me,  for  though  he  could 
work  like  a  Trojan  when  the  fit  took  him,  he 

14 


THE  WILD-GOOSE  CHASE 

was  never  at  the  same  job  very  long.  In  the 
same  week  he  would  harass  an  Under  Secre- 
tary about  horses  for  the  Army,  write  volumi- 
nously to  the  press  about  a  gun  he  had  in- 
vented for  potting  aeroplanes,  give  a  fancy- 
dress  ball  which  he  forgot  to  attend,  and  get 
into  the  semi-final  of  the  racquets  champion- 
ship. I  waited  daily  to  see  him  start  a  new 
religion. 

That  night,  I  recollect,  he  had  an  odd  as- 
sortment of  guests.  A  Cabinet  Minister  was 
there,  a  gentle  being  for  whom  Tommy  pro- 
fessed public  scorn  and  private  affection;  a 
sailor;  an  Indian  cavalry  fellow;  Chapman, 
the  Labour  member,  whom  Tommy  called 
Chipmunk;  myself,  and  old  Milson  of  the 
Treasury.  Our  host  was  in  tremendous  form, 
chaffing  everybody,  and  sending  Chipmunk 
into  great  rolling  gusts  of  merriment.  The 
two  lived  adjacent  in  Yorkshire,  and  on  plat- 
forms abused  each  other  like  pickpockets. 

Tommy  enlarged  on  the  misfits  of  civilised 
life.  He  maintained  that  none  of  us,  except 
perhaps  the  sailor  and  the  cavalryman,  were 

IS 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

at  our  proper  job.  He  would  have  had  Wy- 
tham — that  was  the  Minister — a  cardinal  of 
the  Roman  Church,  and  he  said  that  Milson 
should  have  been  the  Warden  of  a  college  full 
of  port  and  prejudice.  Me  he  was  kind  enough 
to  allocate  to  some  reconstructed  Imperial 
General  Staff,  merely  because  I  had  a  craze 
for  military  history.  Tommy's  perception  did 
not  go  very  deep.  He  told  Chapman  he  should 
have  been  a  lumberman  in  California.  "You'd 
have  made  an  uncommon  good  logger,  Chip- 
munk, and  you  know  you're  a  dashed  bad  poli- 
tician." 

When  questioned  about  himself  he  became 
reticent,  as  the  newspapers  say.  "I  doubt  if 
I'm  much  good  at  any  job,"  he  confessed,  "ex- 
cept to  ginger  up  my  friends.  Anyhow,  I'm 
getting  out  of  this  hole.  Paired  for  the  rest 
of  the  session  with  a  chap  who  has  lockjaw. 
I'm  off  to  stretch  my  legs  and  get  back  my 
sense  of  proportion." 

Some  one  asked  him  where  he  was  going, 
and  was  told  "Venezuela,  to  buy  Government 
bonds  and  look  for  birds'  nests." 

16 


THE  WILD-GOOSE  CHASE 

Nobody  took  Tommy  seriously,  so  his  guests 
did  not  trouble  to  bid  him  the  kind  of  fare- 
well a  prolonged  journey  would  demand.  But 
when  the  others  had  gone,  and  we  were  sitting 
in  the  little  back  smoking-room  on  the  first 
floor,  he  became  solemn.  Portentously  sol- 
emn, for  he  wrinkled  up  his  brows  and 
dropped  his  jaw  in  the  way  he  had  when  he 
fancied  he  was  in  earnest. 

"I've  taken  on  a  queer  job,  Leithen,"  he 
said,  "and  I  want  you  to  hear  about  it.  None 
of  my  family  know,  and  I  would  like  to  leave 
some  one  behind  me  who  could  get  on  to  my 
tracks  if  things  got  troublesome." 

I  braced  myself  for  some  preposterous  con- 
fidence, for  I  was  experienced  in  Tommy's  va- 
garies. But  I  own  to  being  surprised  when  he 
asked  me  if  I  remembered  Pitt-Heron. 

I  remembered  Pitt-Heron  very  well.  He 
had  been  at  Oxford  with  me,  but  he  was  no 
great  friend  of  mine,  though  for  about  two 
years  Tommy  and  he  had  been  inseparable. 
He  had  had  a  prodigious  reputation  for  clev- 
erness with  everybody  but  the  college  authori- 

17 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

ties,  and  used  to  spend  his  vacations  doing  mad 
things  in  the  Alps  and  the  Balkans  and  writ- 
ing about  them  in  the  half-penny  press.  He 
was  enormously  rich — cotton  mills  and  Liver- 
pool ground  rents — and,  being  without  a  fa- 
ther, did  pretty  much  what  his  fantastic  taste 
dictated.  He  was  rather  a  hero  for  a  bit  after 
he  came  down,  for  he  had  made  some  wild 
journey  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Afghanistan 
and  written  an  exciting  book  about  it. 

Then  he  married  a  pretty  cousin  of  Tom- 
my's, who  happened  to  be  the  only  person  that 
ever  captured  my  stony  heart,  and  settled 
down  in  London.  I  did  not  go  to  their  house, 
and  soon  I  found  that  very  few  of  his  friends 
saw  much  of  him,  either.  His  travels  and 
magazine  articles  suddenly  stopped,  and  I  put 
it  down  to  the  common  course  of  successful 
domesticity.    Apparently  I  was  wrong. 

"Charles  Pitt-Heron,"  said  Tommy,  "is 
blowing  up  for  a  most  thundering  mess." 

I  asked  what  kind  of  mess,  and  Tommy  said 
he  didn't  know.  "That's  the  mischief  of  it. 
You  remember  the  wild  beggar  he  used  to  be, 

18 


THE  WILD-GOOSE  CHASE 

always  off  on  the  spree  to  the  Mountains  of 
the  Moon,  or  somewhere.  Well,  he  has  been 
damping  down  his  fires  lately  and  trying  to 
behave  like  a  respectable  citizen,  but  God 
knows  what  he  has  been  thinking!  I  go  a  good 
deal  to  Portman  Square,  and  all  last  year  he 
has  been  getting  queerer." 

Questions  as  to  the  nature  of  the  queerness 
only  elicited  the  fact  that  Pitt-Heron  had 
taken  to  science  with  some  enthusiasm. 

"He  has  got  a  laboratory  at  the  back  of  the 
house — used  to  be  the  billiard-room — where 
he  works  away  half  the  night.  And  Lord! 
The  crew  you  meet  there!  Every  kind  of 
heathen — Chinese  and  Turks,  and  long-haired 
chaps  from  Russia,  and  fat  Germans.  I've 
several  times  blundered  into  the  push. 
They've  all  got  an  odd  secretive  air  about 
them,  and  Charlie  is  becoming  like  them.  He 
won't  answer  a  plain  question  or  look  you 
straight  in  the  face.  Ethel  sees  it,  too,  and 
she  has  often  talked  to  me  about  it." 

I  said  I  saw  no  harm  in  such  a  hobby. 
19 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

"I  do,"  said  Tommy  grimly.  "Anyhow,  the 
fellow  has  bolted." 

"What  on  earth "  I  began,  but  was  cut 

short. 

"Bolted  without  a  word  to  a  mortal  soul. 
He  told  Ethel  he  would  be  home  for  luncheon 
yesterday,  and  never  came.  His  man  knew 
nothing  about  him,  hadn't  packed  for  him,  or 
anything;  but  he  found  he  had  stuffed  some 
things  into  a  kit-bag  and  gone  out  by  the  back 
through  the  mews.  Ethel  was  in  terrible 
straits,  and  sent  for  me,  and  I  ranged  all  yes- 
terday afternoon  like  a  wolf  on  the  scent.  I 
found  he  had  drawn  a  biggish  sum  in  gold 
from  the  bank,  but  I  couldn't  find  any  trace  of 
where  he  had  gone. 

"I  was  just  setting  out  for  Scotland  Yard 
this  morning,  when  Tomlin,  the  valet,  rang 
me  up  and  said  he  had  found  a  card  in  the 
waistcoat  of  the  dress  clothes  that  Charles  had 
worn  the  night  before  he  left.  It  had  a  name 
on  it  like  Konalevsky,  and  it  struck  me  that 
they  might  know  something  about  the  business 
at  the  Russian  Embassy.    Well,  I  went  round 

20 


THE  WILD-GOOSE  CHASE 

there,  and  the  long  and  short  of  it  was  that  I 
found  there  was  a  fellow  of  that  name  among 
the  clerks.  I  saw  him,  and  he  said  he  had 
gone  to  see  Mr.  Pitt-Heron  two  days  before 
with  a  letter  from  some  Embassy  chap.  Un- 
fortunately, the  man  in  question  had  gone  off 
to  New  York  next  day,  but  Konalevsky  told 
me  one  thing  which  helped  to  clear  up  mat- 
ters. It  seemed  that  the  letter  had  been  one 
of  those  passports  that  Embassies  give  to  their 
friends — a  higher-powered  sort  than  the  ordi- 
nary make — and  Konalevsky  gathered  from 
something  he  had  heard  that  Charles  was  aim- 
ing for  Moscow." 

Tommy  paused  to  let  his  news  sink  in. 

"Well,  that  was  good  enough  for  me.  I'm 
off  to-morrow  to  run  him  to  ground." 

"But  why  shouldn't  a  man  go  to  Moscow 
if  he  wants?"  I  said  feebly. 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  the  sage  Tom- 
my. "You  don't  know  old  Charles  as  I  know 
him.  He's  got  into  a  queer  set,  and  there's 
no  knowing  what  mischief  he's  up  to.  He's 
perfectly  capable  of  starting  a  revolution  in 

21 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

Armenia  or  somewhere  merely  to  see  how  it 
feels  like  to  be  a  revolutionary.  That's  the 
damned  thing  about  the  artistic  temperament. 
Anyhow,  he's  got  to  chuck  it.  I  won't  have 
Ethel  scared  to  death  by  his  whims.  I  am 
going  to  hale  him  back  from  Moscow,  even 
if  I  have  to  pretend  he's  an  escaped  lunatic. 
He's  probably  like  enough  one  by  this  time  if 
he  has  taken  no  clothes." 

I  have  forgotten  what  I  said,  but  it  was 
some  plea  for  caution.  I  could  not  see  the 
reason  for  these  heroics.  Pitt-Heron  did  not 
interest  me  greatly,  and  the  notion  of  Tommy 
as  a  defender  of  the  hearth  amused  me.  I 
thought  that  he  was  working  on  very  slight 
evidence  and  would  probably  make  a  fool  of 
himself. 

"It's  only  another  of  the  man's  fads,"  I 
said.  "He  never  could  do  things  like  an  or- 
dinary mortal.  What  possible  trouble  could 
there  be?    Money?" 

"Rich  as  Croesus,"  said  Tommy. 

"A  woman?" 

"Blind  as  a  bat  to  female  beauty." 
22 


THE  WILD-GOOSE  CHASE 

"The  wrong  side  of  the  law?" 

"Don't  think  so.  He  could  settle  any  ordi- 
nary scrape  with  a  cheque." 

"Then  I  give  it  up.  Whatever  it  is  it  looks 
as  if  Pitt-Heron  would  have  a  companion 
in  misfortune  before  you  are  done  with  the 
business.  I'm  all  for  your  taking  a  holiday, 
for  at  present  you  are  a  nuisance  to  your 
friends  and  a  disgrace  to  your  country's  legis- 
lature. But  for  goodness'  sake  curb  your  pas- 
sion for  romance.  They  don't  like  it  in 
Russia." 

Next  morning  Tommy  turned  up  to  see  me 
in  Chambers.  The  prospect  of  travel  always 
went  to  his  head  like  wine.  He  was  in  wild 
spirits,  and  had  forgotten  his  anger  at  the 
defaulting  Pitt-Heron  in  gratitude  for  his  pro- 
vision of  an  occupation.  He  talked  of  carry- 
ing him  off  to  the  Caucasus  when  he  had 
found  him,  to  investigate  the  habits  of  the 
Caucasian  stag. 

I  remember  the  scene  as  if  it  were  yester- 
day. It  was  a  hot  May  morning,  and  the  sun 
which  came  through  the  dusty  window  in 

23 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

Fountain  Court  lit  up  the  dust  and  squalor  of 
my  working  chambers.  I  was  pretty  busy  at 
the  time,  and  my  table  was  well-nourished 
with  briefs.  Tommy  picked  up  one  and  be- 
gan to  read  it.  It  was  about  a  new  drainage 
scheme  in  West  Ham.  He  tossed  it  down  and 
looked  at  me  pityingly. 

"Poor  old  beggar!"  he  said.  "To  spend 
your  days  on  such  work  when  the  world  is 
chockful  of  amusing  things.  Life  goes  roar- 
ing by  and  you  only  hear  the  echo  in  your 
stuffy  rooms.  You  can  hardly  see  the  sun  for 
the  cobwebs  on  these  windows  of  yours. 
Charles  is  a  fool,  but  I'm  blessed  if  he  isn't 
wiser  than  you.  Don't  you  wish  you  were 
coming  with  me?" 

The  queer  thing  was  that  I  did.  I  remem- 
ber the  occasion,  as  I  have  said,  for  it  was 
one  of  the  few  on  which  I  have  had  a  pang 
of  dissatisfaction  with  the  calling  I  had 
chosen.  As  Tommy's  footsteps  grew  faint  on 
the  stairs  I  suddenly  felt  as  if  I  were  missing 
something,  as  if  somehow  I  were  out  of  it    It 

24 


THE  WILD-GOOSE  CHASE 

is  an  unpleasant  feeling,  even  when  you  know 
that  the  thing  you  are  out  of  is  foolishness. 

Tommy  went  off  at  n  from  Victoria,  and 
my  work  was  pretty  well  ruined  for  the  day. 
I  felt  oddly  restless,  and  the  cause  was  not 
merely  Tommy's  departure.  My  thoughts 
kept  turning  to  the  Pitt-Herons — chiefly  to 
Ethel,  that  adorable  child  unequally  yoked 
to  a  perverse  egoist,  but  a  good  deal  to  the 
egoist  himself.  I  have  never  suffered  much 
from  whimsies,  but  I  suddenly  began  to  feel 
a  curious  interest  in  the  business,  an  unwill- 
ing interest,  for  I  found  it  in  my  heart  to  re- 
gret my  robust  scepticism  of  the  night  before. 
And  it  was  more  than  interest.  I  had  a  sort 
of  presentiment  that  I  was  going  to  be  mixed 
up  in  the  affair  more  than  I  wanted.  I  told 
myself  angrily  that  the  life  of  an  industrious 
common-law  barrister  could  have  little  to  do 
with  the  wanderings  of  two  maniacs  in  Mus- 
covy. But,  try  as  I  might,  I  could  not  get  rid 
of  the  obsession.  That  night  it  followed  me 
into  my  dreams,  and  I  saw  myself  with  a 
knout  coercing  Tommy  and  Pitt-Heron  in  a 

25 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

Russian  fortress  which  faded  away  into  the 
Carlton  Hotel. 

Next  afternoon  I  found  my  steps  wending 
in  the  direction  of  Portman  Square.  I  lived 
at  the  time  in  Down  Street,  and  I  told  myself 
I  would  be  none  the  worse  of  a  walk  in  the 
Park  before  dinner.  I  had  a  fancy  to  see  Mrs. 
Pitt-Heron,  for,  though  I  had  only  met  her 
twice  since  her  marriage,  there  had  been  a 
day  when  we  were  the  closest  of  friends. 

I  found  her  alone,  a  perplexed  and  sad- 
dened lady  with  imploring  eyes.  Those  eyes 
questioned  me  as  to  how  much  I  knew.  I 
told  her  presently  that  I  had  seen  Tommy 
and  was  aware  of  his  errand.  I  was  moved 
to  add  that  she  might  count  on  me  if  there 
were  anything  she  wished  done  on  this  side  of 
the  Channel. 

She  was  very  little  changed.  There  was 
still  the  old  exquisite  slimness,  the  old  shy 
courtesy.  But  she  told  me  nothing.  Charles 
was  full  of  business  and  becoming  very  for- 
getful. She  was  sure  the  Russian  journey  was 
all  a  stupid  mistake.    He  probably  thought  he 

26 


THE  WILD-GOOSE  CHASE 

had  told  her  of  his  departure.     He  would 
write;  she  expected  a  letter  by  every  post. 

But  her  haggard  eyes  belied  her  optimism. 
I  could  see  that  there  had  been  odd  happen- 
ings of  late  in  the  Pitt-Heron  household.  She 
either  knew  or  feared  something — the  latter, 
I  thought,  for  her  air  was  more  of  apprehen- 
sion than  of  painful  enlightenment. 

I  did  not  stay  long,  and,  as  I  walked  home, 
I  had  an  awkward  feeling  that  I  had  intruded. 
Also  I  was  increasingly  certain  that  there  was 
trouble  brewing,  and  that  Tommy  had  more 
warrant  for  his  journey  than  I  had  given  him 
credit  for.  I  cast  my  mind  back  to  gather 
recollections  of  Pitt-Heron,  but  all  I  could 
find  was  an  impression  of  a  brilliant  uncom- 
fortable being,  who  had  been  too  fond  of  the 
byways  of  life  for  my  sober  tastes.  There  was 
nothing  crooked  in  him  in  the  wrong  sense, 
but  there  might  be  a  good  deal  that  was  per- 
verse. I  remember  consoling  myself  with  the 
thought  that,  though  he  might  shatter  his 
wife's  nerves  by  his  vagaries,  he  would  scarce- 
ly break  her  heart. 

27 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

To  be  watchful,  I  decided,  was  my  busi- 
ness. And  I  could  not  get  rid  of  the  feeling 
that  I  might  soon  have  cause  for  all  my 
vigilance. 


28 


CHAPTER  II 

I  FIRST  HEAR  OF  MR.  ANDREW 
LUMLEY 


CHAPTER    II 

I  FIRST  HEAR  OF  MR.  ANDREW  LUMLEY 

A  FORTNIGHT  later— to  be  accurate, 
on  the  2 1 st  of  May — I  did  a  thing  I 
rarely  do,  and  went  down  to  South  London 
on  a  County  Court  case.  It  was  an  ordinary 
taxi-cab  accident,  and,  as  the  solicitors  for 
the  company  were  good  clients  of  mine,  and 
the  regular  county-court  junior  was  ill  in  bed, 
I  took  the  case  to  oblige  them.  There  was 
the  usual  dull  conflict  of  evidence.  An  empty 
taxi-cab,  proceeding  slowly  on  the  right  side 
of  the  road  and  hooting  decorously  at  the  cor- 
ners, had  been  run  into  by  a  private  motor- 
car, which  had  darted  down  a  side  street.  The 
taxi  had  been  swung  round  and  its  bonnet  con- 
siderably damaged,  while  its  driver  had  suf- 
fered a  dislocated  shoulder.  The  bad  feature 
in  the  case  was  that  the  motor-car  had  not 
halted  to  investigate  the  damage,  but  had  pro- 

31 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

ceeded  unconscientiously  on  its  way,  and  the 
assistance  of  the  London  police  had  been 
called  in  to  trace  it.  It  turned  out  to  be  the 
property  of  a  Mr.  Julius  Pavia,  a  retired  East 
India  merchant,  who  lived  in  a  large  villa  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  Blackheath,  and  at  the 
time  of  the  accident  it  had  been  occupied  by 
his  butler.  The  company  brought  an  action 
for  damages  against  its  owner. 

The  butler,  Tuke,  by  name,  was  the  only 
witness  for  the  defence.  He  was  a  tall  man, 
with  a  very  long,  thin  face,  and  a  jaw  the  two 
parts  of  which  seemed  scarcely  to  fit.  He  was 
profuse  in  his  apologies  on  behalf  of  his  mas- 
ter, who  was  abroad.  It  seemed  that  on  the 
morning  in  question — it  was  the  8th  of  May — 
he  had  received  instructions  from  Mr.  Pavia 
to  convey  a  message  to  a  passenger  by  the  Con- 
tinental express  from  Victoria,  and  had  been 
hot  on  this  errand  when  he  met  the  taxi.  He 
was  not  aware  that  there  had  been  any  dam- 
age, thought  it  only  a  slight  grazing  of  the 
two  cars,  and  on  his  master's  behalf  consented 
to  the  judgment  of  the  court. 

32 


I  FIRST  HEAR  OF  ANDREW  LUMLEY 

It  was  a  commonplace  business,  but  Tuke 
was  by  no  means  a  commonplace  witness.  He 
was  very  unlike  the  conventional  butler,  much 
liker  one  of  those  successful  financiers  whose 
portraits  you  see  in  the  picture  papers.  His 
little  eyes  were  quick  with  intelligence,  and 
there  were  lines  of  ruthlessness  around  his 
mouth,  like  those  of  a  man  often  called  to  de- 
cisive action.  His  story  was  simplicity  itself, 
and  he  answered  my  questions  with  an  air  of 
serious  candour.  The  train  he  had  to  meet 
was  the  n  a.  m.  from  Victoria,  the  train  by 
which  Tommy  had  travelled.  The  passenger 
he  had  to  see  was  an  American  gentleman, 
Mr.  Wright  Davies.  His  master,  Mr.  Pavia, 
was  in  Italy,  but  would  shortly  be  home  again. 

The  case  was  over  in  twenty  minutes,  but 
it  was  something  unique  in  my  professional  ex- 
perience. For  I  took  a  most  intense  and  un- 
reasoning dislike  to  that  bland  butler.  I 
cross-examined  with  some  rudeness,  was  an- 
swered with  steady  courtesy,  and  hopelessly 
snubbed.  The  upshot  was  that  I  lost  my  tem- 
per,  to   the  surprise   of   the   County  Court 

33 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

judge.  All  the  way  back  I  was  both  angry 
and  ashamed  of  myself.  Half  way  home  I 
realised  that  the  accident  had  happened  on 
the  very  day  that  Tommy  left  London.  The 
coincidence  merely  flickered  across  my  mind, 
for  there  could  be  no  earthly  connection  be- 
tween the  two  events. 

That  afternoon  I  wasted  some  time  in  look- 
ing up  Pavia  in  the  directory.  He  was  there 
sure  enough,  as  the  occupier  of  a  suburban 
mansion  called  the  White  Lodge.  He  had  no 
city  address,  so  it  was  clear  that  he  was  out  of 
business.  My  irritation  with  the  man  had 
made  me  inquisitive  about  the  master.  It  was 
a  curious  name  he  bore,  possibly  Italian,  pos- 
sibly Goanese.  I  wondered  how  he  got  on 
with  his  highly  competent  butler.  If  Tuke 
had  been  my  servant  I  would  have  wrung  his 
neck  or  bolted  before  a  week  was  out. 

Have  you  ever  noticed  that,  when  you  hear 
a  name  that  strikes  you,  you  seem  to  be  con- 
stantly hearing  it  for  a  bit.  Once  I  had  a 
case  in  which  one  of  the  parties  was  called 
Jubber,  a  name  I  had  never  met  before,  but 

34 


I  FIRST  HEAR  OF  ANDREW  LUMLEY 

I  ran  across  two  other  Jubbers  before  the  case 
was  over.  Anyhow,  the  day  after  the  Black- 
heath  visit  I  was  briefed  in  a  big  Stock  Ex- 
change case,  which  turned  on  the  true  owner- 
ship of  certain  bearer  bonds.  It  was  a  com- 
plicated business  which  I  need  not  trouble  you 
with,  and  it  involved  a  number  of  consulta- 
tions with  my  lay  clients,  a  famous  firm  of 
brokers.  They  produced  their  books  and  my 
chambers  were  filled  with  glossy  gentlemen 
talking  a  strange  jargon. 

I  had  to  examine  my  clients  closely  on  their 
practice  in  treating  a  certain  class  of  bearer 
security,  and  they  were  very  frank  in  ex- 
pounding their  business.  I  was  not  surprised 
to  hear  that  Pitt-Heron  was  one  of  the  most 
valued  names  on  their  lists.  With  his  wealth 
he  was  bound  to  be  a  good  deal  in  the  city. 
Now  I  had  no  desire  to  pry  into  Pitt-Heron's 
private  affairs,  especially  his  financial  ar- 
rangements, but  his  name  was  in  my  thoughts 
at  the  time,  and  I  could  not  help  looking 
curiously  at  what  was  put  before  me.  He 
seemed  to  have  been  buying  these  bonds  on  a 

35 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

big  scale.  I  had  the  indiscretion  to  ask  if  Mr. 
Pitt-Heron  had  long  followed  this  course,  and 
was  told  that  he  had  begun  to  purchase  some 
six  months  before. 

"Mr.  Pitt-Heron,"  volunteered  the  stock- 
broker, "is  very  closely  connected  in  his  finan- 
cial operations  with  another  esteemed  client 
of  ours,  Mr.  Julius  Pavia.  They  are  both  at- 
tracted by  this  class  of  security." 

At  the  moment  I  scarcely  noted  the  name, 
but  after  dinner  that  night  I  began  to  specu- 
late about  the  connection.  I  had  found  out 
the  name  of  one  of  Charles's  mysterious  new 
friends. 

It  was  not  a  very  promising  discovery.  A 
retired  East  India  merchant  did  not  suggest 
anything  wildly  speculative,  but  I  began  to 
wonder  if  Charles's  preoccupation,  to  which 
Tommy  had  been  witness,  might  not  be  con- 
nected with  financial  worries.  I  could  not 
believe  that  the  huge  Pitt-Heron  fortune  had 
been  seriously  affected,  or  that  his  flight  was 
that  of  a  defaulter,  but  he  might  have  got  en- 
tangled in  some  shady  city  business  which 

36 


I  FIRST  HEAR  OF  ANDREW  LUMLEY 

preyed  on  his  sensitive  soul.  Somehow  or 
other  I  could  not  believe  that  Mr.  Pavia  was 
a  wholly  innocent  old  gentleman;  his  butler 
looked  too  formidable.  It  was  possible  that 
he  was  blackmailing  Pitt-Heron,  and  that 
the  latter  had  departed  to  get  out  of  his 
clutches. 

But  on  what  ground?  I  had  no  notion  as 
to  the  blackmailable  thing  that  might  lurk  in 
Charles's  past,  and  the  guesses  which  flitted 
through  my  brain  were  too  fantastic  to  con- 
sider seriously.  After  all,  I  had  only  the  flim- 
siest basis  for  conjecture.  Pavia  and  Pitt- 
Heron  were  friends;  Tommy  had  gone  off  in 
quest  of  Pitt-Heron;  Pavia's  butler  had 
broken  the  law  of  the  land  in  order,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  to  see  the  departure  of  the 
train  by  which  Tommy  had  travelled.  I  re- 
member laughing  at  myself  for  my  suspicions, 
and  reflecting  that,  if  Tommy  could  see  into 
my  head,  he  would  turn  a  deaf  ear  in  the 
future  to  my  complaints  of  his  lack  of  balance. 

But  the  thing  stuck  in  my  mind,  and  I 
called  again  that  week  on  Mrs.  Pitt-Heron. 

37 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

She  had  had  no  word  from  her  husband,  and 
only  a  bare  line  from  Tommy,  giving  his 
Moscow  address.  Poor  child,  it  was  a 
wretched  business  for  her.  She  had  to  keep 
a  smiling  face  to  the  world,  invent  credible 
tales  to  account  for  her  husband's  absence, 
and  all  the  while  anxiety  and  dread  were 
gnawing  at  her  heart.  I  asked  her  if  she  had 
ever  met  a  Mr.  Pavia,  but  the  name  was  un- 
known to  her.  She  knew  nothing  of  Charles's 
business  dealings,  but  at  my  request  she  inter- 
viewed his  bankers,  and  I  heard  from  her  next 
day  that  his  affairs  were  in  perfect  order.  It 
was  no  financial  crisis  which  had  precipitated 
him  abroad. 

A  few  days  later  I  stumbled  by  the  merest 
accident  upon  what  sailors  call  a  "cross-bear- 
ing." At  the  time  I  used  to  "devil"  a  little 
for  the  Solicitor-General,  and  "note"  cases 
sent  to  him  from  the  different  Government 
offices.  It  was  thankless  work,  but  it  was  sup- 
posed to  be  good  for  an  ambitious  lawyer.  By 

38 


1  FIRST  HEAR  OF  ANDREW  LUMLEY 

this  prosaic  channel  I  received  the  first  hint 
of  another  of  Charles's  friends. 

I  had  sent  me  one  day  the  papers  dealing 
with  the  arrest  of  a  German  spy  at  Plymouth, 
for  at  the  time  there  was  a  sort  of  epidemic 
of  roving  Teutons  who  got  themselves  into 
compromising  situations,  and  gravely  trou- 
bled the  souls  of  the  Admiralty  and  the  War- 
Office.  This  case  was  distinguished  from  the 
common  ruck  by  the  higher  social  standing 
of  the  accused.  Generally  the  spy  is  a  pho- 
tographer or  bagman  who  attempts  to  win  the 
bibulous  confidence  of  minor  officials.  But 
this  specimen  was  no  less  than  a  professor  of  a 
famous  German  University,  a  man  of  excel- 
lent manners,  wide  culture,  and  attractive 
presence,  who  had  dined  with  Port  officers 
and  danced  with  Admirals'  daughters. 

I  have  forgotten  the  evidence  or  what  was 
the  legal  point  submitted  for  the  Law  Offi- 
cers' opinion ;  in  any  case  it  matters  little,  for 
he  was  acquitted.  What  interested  me  at  the 
time  was  the  testimonials  as  to  character 
which  he  carried  with  him.     He  had  many 

39 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

letters  of  introduction.  One  was  from  Pitt- 
Heron  to  his  wife's  sailor  uncle;  and  when  he 
was  arrested  one  Englishman  went  so  far  as 
to  wire  that  he  took  upon  himself  the  whole 
costs  of  the  defence.  This  gentleman  was  a 
Mr.  Andrew  Lumley,  stated  in  the  papers  sent 
me  to  be  a  rich  bachelor,  a  member  of  the 
Athenaeum  and  Carlton  Clubs,  and  a  dweller 
in  the  Albany. 

Remember,  that  till  a  few  weeks  before  I 
had  known  nothing  of  Pitt-Heron's  circle, 
and  here  were  three  bits  of  information  drop- 
ping in  on  me  unsolicited,  just  when  my  inter- 
est had  been  awakened.  I  began  to  get  really 
keen,  for  every  man  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
believes  that  he  is  a  born  detective.  I  was  on 
the  look-out  for  Charles's  infrequent  friends, 
and  I  argued  that  if  he  knew  the  spy  and  the 
spy  knew  Mr.  Lumley,  the  odds  were  that 
Pitt-Heron  and  Lumley  were  acquaintances. 
I  hunted  up  the  latter  in  the  Red  Book.  Sure 
enough,  he  lived  in  the  Albany,  belonged  to 
half  a  dozen  clubs,  and  had  a  country  house 
in  Hampshire. 

40 


I  FIRST  HEAR  OF  ANDREW  LUMLEY 

I  tucked  the  name  away  in  a  pigeon-hole 
of  my  memory,  and  for  some  days  asked 
every  one  I  met  if  he  knew  the  philanthropist 
of  the  Albany.  I  had  no  luck  till  the  Satur- 
day, when,  lunching  at  the  club,  I  ran  against 
Jenkinson,  the  art  critic. 

I  forget  if  you  know  that  I  have  always 
been  a  bit  of  a  connoisseur  in  a  mild  way.  I 
used  to  dabble  in  prints  and  miniatures,  but 
at  that  time  my  interest  lay  chiefly  in  Old 
Wedgwood,  of  which  I  had  collected  some 
good  pieces.  Old  Wedgwood  is  a  thing  which 
few  people  collect  seriously,  but  the  few  who 
do  are  apt  to  be  monomaniacs.  Whenever  a 
big  collection  comes  into  the  market  it  fetches 
high  prices,  but  it  generally  finds  its  way  into 
not  more  than  half  a  dozen  hands.  Wedg- 
woodites  all  know  each  other,  and  they  are 
less  cut-throat  in  their  methods  than  most  col- 
lectors. Of  all  I  have  ever  met  Jenkinson 
was  the  keenest,  and  he  would  discourse  for 
hours  on  the  "feel"  of  good  jasper  and  the 
respective  merits  of  blue  and  sage-green 
grounds. 

4i 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

That  day  he  was  full  of  excitement.  He 
babbled  through  luncheon  about  the  Went- 
worth  sale,  which  he  had  attended  the  week 
before.  There  had  been  a  pair  of  magnifi- 
cent plaques,  with  a  unique  Flaxman  design, 
which  had  roused  his  enthusiasm.  Urns  and 
medallions  and  what  not  had  gone  to  this  or 
that  connoisseur,  and  Jenkinson  could  quote 
their  prices,  but  the  plaques  dominated  his 
fancy,  and  he  was  furious  that  the  nation  had 
not  acquired  them.  It  seemed  that  he  had 
been  to  South  Kensington  and  the  British 
Museum  and  all  sorts  of  dignitaries,  and  he 
thought  he  might  yet  persuade  the  authorities 
to  offer  for  them  if  the  purchaser  would  re- 
sell. They  had  been  bought  by  Lutrin  for  a 
well-known  private  collector,  by  name  An- 
drew Lumley. 

I  pricked  up  my  ears  and  asked  about  Mr. 
Lumley. 

Jenkinson  said  he  was  a  rich  old  buffer  who 
locked  up  his  things  in  cupboards  and  never 
let  the  public  get  a  look  at  them.  He  sus- 
pected that  a  lot  of  the  best  things  at  recent 

42 


I  FIRST  HEAR  OF  ANDREW  LUMLEY 

sales  had  found  their  way  to  him,  and  that 
meant  that  they  were  put  in  cold  storage  for 
good. 

I  asked  if  he  knew  him. 

No,  he  told  me,  but  he  had  once  or  twice 
been  allowed  to  look  at  his  things  for  books 
he  had  been  writing.  He  had  never  seen  the 
man,  for  he  always  bought  through  agents, 
but  he  had  heard  of  people  who  knew  him. 
"It  is  the  old  silly  game,"  he  said.  "He  will 
fill  half  a  dozen  houses  with  priceless  treas- 
ures, and  then  die,  and  the  whole  show  will 
be  sold  at  auction  and  the  best  things  carried 
off  to  America.  It's  enough  to  make  a  patriot 
swear." 

There  was  balm  in  Gilead,  however.  Mr. 
Lumley  apparently  might  be  willing  to  re- 
sell the  Wedgwood  plaques  if  he  got  a  fair 
offer.  So  Jenkinson  had  been  informed  by 
Lutrin,  and  that  very  afternoon  he  was  going 
to  look  at  them.  He  asked  me  to  come  with 
him,  and,  having  nothing  to  do,  I  accepted. 

Jenkinson's  car  was  waiting  for  us  at  the 
club  door.    It  was  closed,  for  the  afternoon 

43 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

was  wet.  I  did  not  hear  his  directions  to  the 
chauffeur,  and  we  had  been  on  the  road  ten 
minutes  or  so  before  I  discovered  that  we  had 
crossed  the  river  and  were  traversing  South 
London.  I  had  expected  to  find  the  things 
in  Lutrin's  shop,  but  to  my  delight  I  was  told 
that  Lumley  had  taken  delivery  of  them  at 
once. 

"He  keeps  very  few  of  his  things  in  the 
Albany  except  his  books,"  I  was  told.  "But 
he  has  a  house  at  Blackheath  which  is  stuffed 
from  cellar  to  garret." 

"What  is  the  name  of  it?"  I  asked  with  a 
sudden  suspicion. 

"The  White  Lodge,"  said  Jenkinson. 

"But  that  belongs  to  a  man  called  Pavia," 
I  said. 

"I  can't  help  that.  The  things  in  it  be- 
long to  old  Lumley,  all  right.  I  know,  for 
I've  been  three  times  there  with  his  per- 
mission." 

Jenkinson  got  little  out  of  me  for  the  rest 
of  the  ride.  Here  was  excellent  corrobora- 
tive evidence  of  what  I  had  allowed  myself 

44 


I  FIRST  HEAR  OF  ANDREW  LUMLEY 

to  suspect.  Pavia  was  a  friend  of  Pitt-Heron, 
Lumley  was  a  friend  of  Pitt-Heron ;  Lumley 
was  obviously  a  friend  of  Pavia,  and  he  might 
be  Pavia  himself,  for  the  retired  East  India 
merchant,  as  I  figured  him,  would  not  be 
above  an  innocent  impersonation.  Anyhow, 
if  I  could  find  one  or  the  other,  I  might  learn 
something  about  Charles's  recent  doings.  I 
sincerely  hoped  that  the  owner  might  be  at 
home  that  afternoon  when  we  inspected  his 
treasures,  for  so  far  I  had  found  no  one  who 
could  procure  me  an  introduction  to  that  mys- 
terious old  bachelor  of  artistic  and  philo- 
Teutonic  tastes. 

We  reached  the  White  Lodge  about  half- 
past  three.  It  was  one  of  those  small,  square, 
late-Georgian  mansions  which  you  see  all 
around  London — once  a  country-house  among 
fields,  now  only  a  villa  in  a  pretentious  gar- 
den. I  looked  to  see  my  super-butler  Tuke, 
but  the  door  was  opened  by  a  female  servant, 
who  inspected  Jenkinson's  card  of  admission, 
and  somewhat  unwillingly  allowed  us  to 
enter. 

45 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

My  companion  had  not  exaggerated  when 
he  described  the  place  as  full  of  treasures.  It 
was  far  more  like  the  shop  of  a  Bond  Street 
art-dealer  than  a  civilised  dwelling.  The  hall 
was  crowded  with  Japanese  armour  and  lac- 
quer cabinets.  One  room  was  lined  from  floor 
to  ceiling  with  good  pictures,  mostly  seven- 
teenth-century Dutch,  and  had  enough  Chip- 
pendale chairs  to  accommodate  a  public  meet- 
ing. Jenkinson  would  fain  have  prowled 
around,  but  we  were  moved  on  by  the  inexor- 
able servant  to  the  little  back  room  where 
lay  the  objects  of  our  visit.  The  plaques  had 
been  only  half-unpacked,  and  in  a  moment 
Jenkinson  was  busy  on  them  with  a  magnify- 
ing glass,  purring  to  himself  like  a  contented 
cat. 

The  housekeeper  stood  on  guard  by  the 
door,  Jenkinson  was  absorbed,  and  after  the 
first  inspection  of  the  treasures  I  had  leisure 
to  look  about  me.  It  was  an  untidy  little 
room,  full  of  fine  Chinese  porcelain  in  dusty 
glass  cabinets,  and  in  a  corner  stood  piles  of 
old  Persian  rugs. 

46 


I  FIRST  HEAR  OF  ANDREW  LUMLEY 

Pavia,  I  reflected,  must  be  an  easy-going 
soul,  entirely  oblivious  of  comfort,  if  he  al- 
lowed his  friend  to  turn  his  dwelling  into  such 
a  pantechnicon.  Less  and  less  did  I  believe 
in  the  existence  of  the  retired  East  Indian 
merchant.  The  house  was  Lumley's,  who 
chose  to  pass  under  another  name  during  his 
occasional  visits.  His  motive  might  be  inno- 
cent enough,  but  somehow  I  did  not  think  so. 
His  butler  had  looked  too  infernally  intelli- 
gent. 

With  my  foot  I  turned  over  the  lid  of  one 
of  the  packing-cases  that  had  held  the  Wedg- 
woods. It  was  covered  with  a  litter  of  cotton- 
wool and  shavings,  and  below  it  lay  a  crum- 
pled piece  of  paper.  I  looked  again,  and 
saw  that  it  was  a  telegraph  form.  Clearly 
somebody,  with  the  telegram  in  his  hand,  had 
opened  the  cases,  and  had  left  it  on  the  top 
of  one,  whence  it  had  dropped  to  the  floor 
and  been  covered  by  the  lid  when  it  was  flung 
off. 

I  hope  and  believe  that  I  am  as  scrupulous 
as  other  people,  but  then  and  there  came  on 

47 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

me  the  conviction  that  I  must  read  that  tele- 
gram. I  felt  the  gimlet  eye  of  the  housekeeper 
on  me,  so  I  had  recourse  to  craft.  I  took  out 
my  cigarette  case  as  if  to  smoke,  and  clumsily 
upset  its  contents  amongst  the  shavings.  Then 
on  my  knees  I  began  to  pick  them  up,  turn- 
ing over  the  litter  till  the  telegram  was  ex- 
posed. 

It  was  in  French  and  I  read  it  quite  clearly. 
It  had  been  sent  from  Vienna,  but  the  address 
was  in  some  code.  "Suivez  a  Bokhare  Saro- 
nov" — these  were  the  words.  I  finished  my 
collection  of  the  cigarettes,  and  turned  the  lid 
over  again  on  the  telegram,  so  that  its  owner, 
if  he  chose  to  look  for  it  diligently,  migKi 
find  it. 

When  we  sat  in  the  car  going  home,  Jen- 
kinson  absorbed  in  meditation  on  the  plaques, 
I  was  coming  to  something  like  a  decision.  A 
curious  feeling  of  inevitability  possessed  me. 
I  had  collected  by  accident  a  few  odd  dis- 
jointed pieces  of  information,  and  here  by  the 
most  amazing  accident  of  all  was  the  con- 
necting link.    I  knew  I  had  no  evidence  to  go 

48 


I  FIRST  HEAR  OF  ANDREW  LUMLEY 

upon  which  would  have  convinced  the  most 
credulous  common  jury.  Pavia  knew  Pitt- 
Heron;  so  probably  did  Lumley.  Lumley 
knew  Pavia,  possibly  was  identical  with  him. 
Somebody  in  Pavia's  house  got  a  telegram  in 
which  a  trip  to  Bokhara  was  indicated.  It 
didn't  sound  much.  Yet  I  was  absolutely 
convinced,  with  the  queer  sub-conscious  cer- 
titude of  the  human  brain,  that  Pitt-Heron 
was  or  was  about  to  be  in  Bokhara,  and  that 
Pavia-Lumley  knew  of  his  being  there  and 
was  deeply  concerned  in  his  journey. 

That  night  after  dinner  I  rang  up  Mrs. 
Pitt-Heron. 

She  had  had  a  letter  from  Tommy,  a  very 
dispirited  letter,  for  he  had  had  no  luck.  No- 
body in  Moscow  had  seen  or  heard  of  any 
wandering  Englishman  remotely  like  Charles, 
and  Tommy,  after  playing  the  private  de- 
tective for  three  weeks,  was  nearly  at  the  end 
of  his  tether  and  spoke  of  returning  home. 

I  told  her  to  send  him  the  following  wire  in 
her  own  name.  "Go  on  to  Bokhara.  Have  in- 
formation you  will  meet  him  there/' 

49 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

She  promised  to  send  the  message  next  day 
and  asked  no  further  questions.  She  was  a 
pearl  among  women. 


SO 


CHAPTER  in 
TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 


CHAPTER  III 

TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

HITHERTO  I  had  been  the  looker-on; 
now  I  was  to  become  a  person  of  the 
drama.  That  telegram  was  the  beginning  of 
my  active  part  in  this  curious  affair.  They 
say  that  everybody  turns  up  in  time  at  the 
corner  of  Piccadilly  Circus  if  you  wait  long 
enough.  I  was  to  find  myself  like  a  citizen 
of  Bagdad  in  the  days  of  the  great  Caliph, 
and  yet  never  stir  from  my  routine  of  flat, 
chambers,  club,  and  flat. 

I  am  wrong;  there  was  one  episode  out  of 
London,  and  that  perhaps  was  the  true  be- 
ginning of  my  story. 

Whitsuntide  that  year  came  very  late,  and 
I  was  glad  of  the  fortnight's  rest,  for  Parlia- 
ment and  the  Law  Courts  had  given  me  a 
busy  time.  I  had  recently  acquired  a  car  and 
a  chauffeur  called  Stagg,  and  I  looked  for- 

53 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

ward  to  trying  it  in  a  tour  in  the  West  coun- 
try. But  before  I  left  London  I  went  again 
to  Portman  Square. 

I  found  Ethel  Pitt-Heron  in  grave  distress. 
You  must  remember  that  Tommy  and  I  had 
always  gone  on  the  hypothesis  that  Charles's 
departure  had  been  in  pursuance  of  some  mad 
scheme  of  his  own  which  might  get  him  into 
trouble.  We  thought  that  he  had  become 
mixed  up  with  highly  undesirable  friends, 
and  was  probably  embarking  in  some  venture 
which  might  not  be  criminal  but  was  certain 
to  be  foolish.  I  had  long  rejected  the  idea  of 
blackmail,  and  convinced  myself  that  Lum- 
ley  and  Pavia  were  his  colleagues.  The  same 
general  notion,  I  fancy,  had  been  in  his  wife's 
mind.  But  now  she  had  found  something 
which  altered  the  case. 

She  had  ransacked  his  papers  in  the  hope 
of  finding  a  clue  to  the  affair  which  had  taken 
him  abroad,  but  there  was  nothing  but  busi- 
ness letters,  notes  of  investments,  and  such 
like.  He  seemed  to  have  burned  most  of  his 
papers  in  the  queer  laboratory  at  the  back  of 

54 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

the  house.  But,  stuffed  into  the  pocket  of  a 
blotter  on  a  bureau  in  the  drawing-room 
where  he  scarcely  ever  wrote,  she  had  found 
a  document.  It  seemed  to  be  the  rough  draft 
of  a  letter,  and  it  was  addressed  to  her.  I 
give  it  as  it  was  written ;  the  blank  spaces  were 
left  blank  in  the  manuscript. 

"You  must  have  thought  me  mad,  or  worse, 
to  treat  you  as  I  have  done.  But  there  was  a 
terrible  reason,  which  some  day  I  hope  to  tell 
you  all  about.  I  want  you  as  soon  as  you  get 
this  to  make  ready  to  come  out  to  me  at  .  .  . 
You  will  travel  by  .  .  .  and  arrive  at  .  .  . 
/  enclose  a  letter  which  I  want  you  to  hand 
in  deepest  confidence  to  Knowles,  the  solicitor. 
He  will  make  all  arrangements  about  your 
journey  and  about  sending  me  the  supplies  of 
money  I  want.  Darling,  you  must  leave  as 
secretly  as  I  did,  and  tell  nobody  anything, 
not  even  that  I  am  alive — that  least  of  all.  I 
would  not  frighten  you  for  worlds,  but  I  am 
on  the  edge  of  a  horrible  danger,  which  I  hope 
with  God's  help  and  yours  to  escape  .  .  ." 

That  was  all — obviously  the  draft  of  a  let- 
55 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

ter  which  he  intended  to  post  to  her  from  some 
foreign  place.  But  can  you  conceive  a  mis- 
sive more  calculated  to  shatter  a  woman's 
nerves?  It  filled  me,  I  am  bound  to  say,  with 
heavy  disquiet.  Pitt-Heron  was  no  coward, 
and  he  was  not  the  man  to  make  too  much  of 
a  risk.  Yet  it  was  clear  that  he  had  fled  that 
day  in  May  under  the  pressure  of  some  mortal 
fear. 

The  affair  in  my  eyes  began  to  look  very 
bad.  Ethel  wanted  me  to  go  to  Scotland 
Yard,  but  I  dissuaded  her.  I  have  the  utmost 
esteem  for  Scotland  Yard,  but  I  shrank  from 
publicity  at  this  stage.  There  might  be  some- 
thing in  the  case  too  delicate  for  the  police  to 
handle,  and  I  thought  it  better  to  wait. 

I  reflected  a  great  deal  about  the  Pitt- 
Heron  business  the  first  day  or  two  of  my 
trip,  but  the  air  and  the  swift  motion  helped 
me  to  forget  it.  We  had  a  fortnight  of  su- 
perb weather,  and  sailed  all  day  through  a 
glistening  green  country  under  the  hazy  blue 
heavens  of  June.   Soon  I  fell  into  the  blissful 

56 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

state  of  physical  and  mental  ease  which  such 
a  life  induces.  Hard  toil,  such  as  deer-stalk- 
ing, keeps  the  nerves  on  the  alert  and  the  mind 
active,  but  swimming  all  day  in  a  smooth  car 
through  a  heavenly  landscape  mesmerises 
brain  and  body. 

We  ran  up  the  Thames  valley,  explored  the 
Cotswolds,  and  turned  south  through  Somer- 
set till  we  reached  the  fringes  of  Exmoor.  I 
stayed  a  day  or  two  at  a  little  inn  high  up  in 
the  moor,  and  spent  the  time  tramping  the 
endless  ridges  of  hill  or  scrambling  in  the 
arbutus  thickets  where  the  moor  falls  in 
steeps  to  the  sea.  We  returned  by  Dartmoor 
and  the  south  coast,  meeting  with  our  first 
rain  in  Dorset,  and  sweeping  into  sunlight 
again  on  Salisbury  Plain.  The  time  came 
when  only  two  days  remained  to  me.  The 
car  had  behaved  beyond  all  my  hopes,  and 
Stagg,  a  sombre  and  silent  man,  was  lyrical  in 
his  praises. 

I  wanted  to  be  in  London  by  the  Monday 
afternoon,  and  to  insure  this  I  made  a  long 
day  of  it  on  the  Sunday.    It  was  the  long  day 

57 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

which  brought  our  pride  to  a  fall.  The  car 
had  run  so  well  that  I  resolved  to  push  on  and 
sleep  in  a  friend's  house  near  Farnham.  It 
was  about  half-past  eight,  and  we  were  tra- 
versing the  somewhat  confused  and  narrow 
roads  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Wolmer  For- 
est, when,  as  we  turned  a  sharp  corner,  we 
ran  full  into  the  tail  of  a  heavy  carrier's  cart. 
Stagg  clapped  on  the  brakes,  but  the  collision, 
though  it  did  no  harm  to  the  cart,  was  suffi- 
cient to  send  the  butt-end  of  something 
through  our  glass  screen,  damage  the  tyre  of 
the  near  front-wheel,  and  derange  the  steer- 
ing-gear. Neither  of  us  suffered  much  hurt, 
but  Stagg  got  a  long  scratch  on  his  cheek  from 
broken  glass,  and  I  had  a  bruised  shoulder. 

The  carrier  was  friendly  but  useless,  and 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  arrange  for 
horses  to  take  the  car  to  Farnham.  This* 
meant  a  job  of  some  hours,  and  I  found  on 
inquiry  at  a  neighbouring  cottage  that  there 
was  no  inn  where  I  could  stay  within  eight 
miles.  Stagg  borrowed  a  bicycle  somehow 
and  went  off  to  collect  horses,  while  I  mo- 

58 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

rosely  reviewed  the  alternatives  before  me. 

I  did  not  like  the  prospect  of  spending  the 
June  night  beside  my  derelict  car,  and  the 
thought  of  my  friend's  house  near  Farnham 
beckoned  me  seductively.  I  might  have 
walked  there,  but  I  did  not  know  the  road, 
and  I  found  that  my  shoulder  was  paining 
me,  so  I  resolved  to  try  to  find  some  gentle- 
man's house  in  the  neighbourhood  where  I 
could  borrow  a  conveyance.  The  south  of 
England  is  now  so  densely  peopled  by  Lon- 
doners that  even  in  a  wild  district  where  there 
are  no  inns  and  few  farms  there  are  certain 
to  be  several  week-end  cottages. 

I  walked  along  the  white  ribbon  of  road  in 
the  scented  June  dusk.  At  first  it  was  bound- 
ed by  high  gorse,  then  came  patches  of 
open  heath,  and  then  woods.  Beyond  the 
woods  I  found  a  park-railing,  and  presently 
an  entrance-gate  with  a  lodge.  It  seemed  to 
be  the  place  I  was  looking  for,  and  I  woke  the 
lodge-keeper,  who  thus  early  had  retired  to 
bed.  I  asked  the  name  of  the  owner,  but  was 
told  the  name  of  the  place  instead — it  was 

59 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

High  Ashes.  I  asked  if  the  owner  was  at 
home,  and  got  a  sleepy  nod  for  answer. 

The  house,  as  seen  in  the  half-light,  was  a 
long  white-washed  cottage,  rising  to  two 
storeys  in  the  centre.  It  was  plentifully  cov- 
ered with  creepers  and  roses,  and  the  odour  of 
flowers  was  mingled  with  the  faintest  savour 
of  wood-smoke,  pleasant  to  a  hungry  traveller 
in  the  late  hours.  I  pulled  an  old-fashioned 
bell,  and  the  door  was  opened  by  a  stolid 
young  parlour-maid. 

I  explained  my  errand,  and  offered  my 
card.  I  was,  I  said,  a  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment and  of  the  Bar,  who  had  suffered  a  mo- 
tor accident.  Would  it  be  possible  for  the 
master  of  the  house  to  assist  me  to  get  to  my 
destination  near  Farnham?  I  was  bidden  en- 
ter, and  wearily  seated  myself  on  a  settle  in 
the  hall. 

In  a  few  minutes  an  ancient  housekeeper 
appeared,  a  grim  dame  whom  at  other  times  I 
should  have  shunned.  She  bore,  however,  a 
hospitable  message.  There  was  no  convey- 
ance in  the  place,  as  the  car  had  gone  that  day 

60 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

to  London  for  repairs.  But  if  I  cared  to 
avail  myself  of  the  accommodation  of  the 
house  for  the  night  it  was  at  my  service. 
Meantime  my  servant  could  be  looking  after 
the  car,  and  a  message  would  go  to  him  to 
pick  me  up  in  the  morning. 

I  gratefully  accepted,  for  my  shoulder  was 
growing  troublesome,  and  was  conducted  up 
a  shallow  oak  staircase  to  a  very  pleasant 
bedroom  with  a  bathroom  adjoining.  I  had 
a  bath,  and  afterwards  found  a  variety  of 
comforts  put  at  my  service,  from  slippers  to 
razors.  There  was  also  some  Elliman  for  my 
wounded  shoulder.  Clean  and  refreshed,  I 
made  my  way  downstairs  and  entered  a  room 
from  which  I  caught  a  glow  of  light. 

It  was  a  library,  the  most  attractive  I  think 
I  have  ever  seen.  The  room  was  long,  as 
libraries  should  be,  and  entirely  lined  with 
books,  save  over  the  fireplace,  where  hung  a 
fine  picture,  which  I  took  to  be  a  Raeburn. 
The  books  were  in  glass  cases,  which  showed 
the  beautiful  shallow  mouldings  of  a  more  ar- 
tistic age.    A  table  was  laid  for  dinner  in  a 

61 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

corner,  for  the  room  was  immense,  and  the 
shaded  candlesticks  on  it,  along  with  the  late 
June  dusk,  gave  such  light  as  there  was.  At 
first  I  thought  the  place  was  empty,  but  as  I 
crossed  the  floor  a  figure  rose  from  a  deep 
chair  by  the  hearth. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Leithen,"  a  voice  said. 
"It  is  a  kindly  mischance  which  gives  a  lonely 
old  man  the  pleasure  of  your  company." 

He  switched  on  an  electric  lamp,  and  I  saw 
before  me — what  I  had  not  guessed  from  the 
voice — an  old  man.  I  was  thirty-four  at  the 
time,  and  counted  anything  over  fifty  old,  but 
I  judged  my  host  to  be  well  on  in  the  sixties. 
He  was  about  my  own  size,  but  a  good  deal 
bent  in  the  shoulders  as  if  from  study.  His 
face  was  clean-shaven  and  extraordinarily.fine, 
with  every  feature  delicately  chiselled.  He 
had  a  sort  of  Hapsburg  mouth  and  chin,  very 
long  and  pointed,  but  modelled  with  a  grace 
which  made  the  full  lower  lip  seem  entirely 
right.  His  hair  was  silver,  brushed  so  low 
on  the  forehead  as  to  give  him  a  slightly  for- 

62 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

eign  air,  and  he  wore  tinted  glasses,  as  if  for 
reading. 

Altogether  it  was  a  very  dignified  and 
agreeable  figure  who  greeted  me  in  a  voice  so 
full  and  soft  that  it  belied  his  obvious  age. 

Dinner  was  a  light  meal,  but  perfect  in  its 
way.  There  were  soles,  I  remember,  an  ex- 
ceedingly well-cooked  chicken,  fresh  straw- 
berries and  a  savoury.  We  drank  a  '95  Per- 
rier-Jouet  and  some  excellent  Madeira.  The 
stolid  parlour-maid  waited  on  us,  and,  as  we 
talked  of  the  weather  and  the  Hampshire 
roads,  I  kept  trying  to  guess  my  host's  pro- 
fession. He  was  not  a  lawyer,  for  he  had  not 
the  inevitable  lines  on  the  cheek.  I  thought 
that  he  might  be  a  retired  Oxford  don,  or  one 
of  the  higher  civil  servants,  or  perhaps  some 
official  of  the  British  Museum.  His  library 
proclaimed  him  a  scholar,  and  his  voice  a 
gentleman. 

Afterwards  we  settled  ourselves  in  arm- 
chairs and  he  gave  me  a  good  cigar.  We 
talked  about  many  things — books,  the  right 
furnishing  of  a  library,  a  little  politics  in  def- 

63 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

erence  to  my  M.P.-ship.  My  host  was  apa- 
thetic about  party  questions,  but  curious  about 
defence  matters  and  in  his  way  an  amateur 
strategist.  I  could  fancy  him  inditing  letters 
to  The  Times  on  national  service. 

Then  we  wandered  into  foreign  affairs, 
where  I  found  his  interest  acute,  and  his 
knowledge  immense.  Indeed  he  was  so  well 
informed  that  I  began  to  suspect  that  my 
guesses  had  been  wrong,  and  that  he  was  a  re- 
tired diplomat.  At  that  time  there  was  some 
difficulty  between  France  and  Italy  over  cus- 
toms duties,  and  he  sketched  for  me  with  re- 
markable clearness  the  weak  points  in  the 
French  tariff  administration.  I  had  been  re- 
cently engaged  in  a  big  South  American  rail- 
way case,  and  I  asked  him  a  question  about 
the  property  of  my  clients.  He  gave  me  a 
much  better  account  than  I  had  ever  got  from 
the  solicitors  who  briefed  me. 

The  fire  had  been  lit  before  we  finished 
dinner,  and  presently  it  began  to  burn  up 
and  light  the  figure  of  my  host,  who  sat  in  a 
deep  arm-chair.    He  had  taken  off  his  tinted 

64 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

glasses,  and  as  I  rose  to  get  a  match  I  saw 
his  eyes  looking  abstractedly  before  him. 

Somehow  they  reminded  me  of  Pitt-Heron. 
Charles  had  always  a  sort  of  dancing  light  in 
his,  a  restless  intelligence  which  was  at  once 
attractive  and  disquieting.  My  host  had  this 
and  more.  His  eyes  were  paler  than  I  had 
ever  seen  in  a  human  head — pale,  bright,  and 
curiously  wild.  But,  whereas  Pitt-Heron's 
had  only  given  the  impression  of  reckless 
youth,  this  man's  spoke  of  wisdom  and  power 
as  well  as  of  endless  vitality. 

All  my  theories  vanished,  for  I  could  not 
believe  that  my  host  had  ever  followed  any 
profession.  If  he  had,  he  would  have  been  at 
the  head  of  it,  and  the  world  would  have  been 
familiar  with  his  features.  I  began  to  won- 
der if  my  recollection  was  not  playing  me 
false,  and  I  was  in  the  presence  of  some  great 
man  whom  I  ought  to  recognise. 

As  I  dived  into  the  recesses  of  my  memory 
I  heard  his  voice  asking  if  I  were  not  a  lawyer. 

I  told  him,  Yes.     A  barrister  with  a  fair 

65 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

common-law  practice  and  some  work  in  Privy- 
Council  appeals. 

He  asked  me  why  I  chose  the  profession. 

"It  came  handiest,"  I  said.  "I  am  a  dry 
creature,  who  loves  facts  and  logic.  I  am  not 
a  flier,  I  have  no  new  ideas,  I  don't  want  to 
lead  men  and  I  like  work.  I  am  the  ordinary 
educated  Englishman,  and  my  sort  gravitates 
to  the  Bar.  We  like  feeling  that,  if  we  are 
not  the  builders,  at  any  rate  we  are  the  cement 
of  civilisation." 

He  repeated  the  words  "cement  of  civilisa- 
tion" in  his  soft  voice. 

"In  a  sense  you  are  right.  But  civilisation 
needs  more  than  the  law  to  hold  it  together. 
You  see  all  mankind  are  not  equally  willing 
to  accept  as  divine  justice  what  is  called  hu- 
man law." 

"Of  course  there  are  further  sanctions,"  I 
said.  "Police  and  armies  and  the  good-will 
of  civilisation." 

He  caught  me  up  quickly.  "The  last  is 
your  true  cement.    Did  you  ever  reflect,  Mr. 

66 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

Leithen,  how  precarious  is  the  tenure  of  the 
civilisation  we  boast  about?" 

"I  should  have  thought  it  fairly  substan- 
tial," I  said,  "and  the  foundations  grow  daily 
firmer." 

He  laughed.  "That  is  the  lawyer's  view, 
but  believe  me  you  are  wrong.  Reflect,  and 
you  will  find  that  the  foundations  are  sand. 
You  think  that  a  wall  as  solid  as  the  earth 
separates  civilisation  from  barbarism.  I  tell 
you  the  division  is  a  thread,  a  sheet  of  glass. 
A  touch  here,  a  push  there,  and  you  bring 
back  the  reign  of  Saturn." 

It  was  the  kind  of  paradoxical,  undergrad- 
uate speculation  which  grown  men  indulge 
in  sometimes  after  dinner.  I  looked  at  my 
host  to  discover  his  mood,  and  at  the  moment 
a  log  flared  up  again. 

His  face  was  perfectly  serious.  His  light 
wild  eyes  were  intently  watching  me. 

"Take  one  little  instance,"  he  said.  "We 
are  a  commercial  world,  and  have  built  up  a 
great  system  of  credit.  Without  our  cheques 
and  bills  of  exchange  and  currency  the  whole 

67 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

of  our  life  would  stop.  But  credit  only  exists 
because  behind  it  we  have  a  standard  of  value. 
My  Bank  of  England  notes  are  worthless  pa- 
per unless  I  can  get  sovereigns  for  them  if  I 
choose.  Forgive  this  elementary  disquisition, 
but  the  point  is  important.  We  have  fixed  a 
gold  standard,  because  gold  is  sufficiently 
rare,  and  because  it  allows  itself  to  be  coined 
into  a  portable  form.  I  am  aware  that  there 
are  economists  who  say  that  the  world  could 
be  run  on  a  pure  credit  basis,  with  no  metal 
currency  at  the  back  of  it;  but,  however 
sound  their  argument  may  be  in  the  abstract, 
the  thing  is  practically  impossible.  You 
would  have  to  convert  the  whole  of  the 
world's  stupidity  to  their  economic  faith  be- 
fore it  would  work. 

"Now,  suppose  something  happened  to 
make  our  standard  of  value  useless.  Suppose 
the  dream  of  the  alchemists  came  true,  and  all 
metals  were  readily  transmutable.  We  have 
got  very  near  it  in  recent  years,  as  you  will 
know  if  you  interest  yourself  in  chemical  sci- 
ence.   Once  gold  and  silver  lost  their  intrinsic 

68 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

value,  the  whole  edifice  of  our  commerce 
would  collapse.  Credit  would  become  mean- 
ingless, because  it  would  be  untranslatable. 
We  should  be  back  at  a  bound  in  the  age  of 
barter,  for  it  is  hard  to  see  what  other  stand- 
ard of  value  could  take  the  place  of  the 
precious  metals.  All  our  civilisation,  with  its 
industries  and  commerce,  would  come  top- 
pling down.  Once  more,  like  primitive  man, 
I  would  plant  cabbages  for  a  living  and  ex- 
change them  for  services  in  kind  from  the 
cobbler  and  the  butcher.  We  should  have 
the  simple  life  with  a  vengeance — not  the  self- 
conscious  simplicity  of  the  civilised  man,  but 
the  compulsory  simplicity  of  the  savage." 

I  was  not  greatly  impressed  by  the  illus- 
tration. "Of  course,  there  are  many  key- 
points  in  civilisation,"  I  said,  "and  the  loss  of 
them  would  bring  ruin.  But  these  keys  are 
strongly  held." 

"Not  so  strongly  as  you  think.  Consider 
how  delicate  the  machine  is  growing.  As  life 
grows  more  complex,  the  machinery  grows 
more  intricate  and  therefore  more  vulnerable. 

69 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

Your  so-called  sanctions  become  so  infinitely 
numerous  that  each  in  itself  is  frail.  In  the 
Dark  Ages  you  had  one  great  power — the  ter- 
ror of  God  and  His  Church.  Now  you  have 
a  multiplicity  of  small  things,  all  delicate  and 
fragile,  and  strong  only  by  our  tacit  agree- 
ment not  to  question  them." 

"You  forget  one  thing,"  I  said — "the  fact 
that  men  really  are  agreed  to  keep  the  ma- 
chine going.  That  is  what  I  called  the  'good- 
will of  civilisation.'  " 

He  got  up  from  his  chair  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  floor,  a  curious  dusky  figure  lit 
by  the  rare  spurts  of  flame  from  the  hearth. 

"You  have  put  your  finger  on  the  one  thing 
that  matters.  Civilisation  is  a  conspiracy. 
What  value  would  your  police  be  if  every 
criminal  could  find  a  sanctuary  across  the 
Channel,  or  your  law  courts  if  no  other  tri- 
bunal recognised  their  decisions?  Modern 
life  is  the  silent  compact  of  comfortable  folk 
to  keep  up  pretences.  And  it  will  succeed 
till  the  day  comes  when  there  is  another  com- 
pact to  strip  them  bare." 

70 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

I  do  not  think  that  I  have  ever  listened  to  a 
stranger  conversation.  It  was  not  so  much 
what  he  said — you  will  hear  the  same  thing 
from  any  group  of  half-baked  young  men — as 
the  air  with  which  he  said  it.  The  room  was 
almost  dark,  but  the  man's  personality  seemed 
to  take  shape  and  bulk  in  the  gloom.  Though 
I  could  scarcely  see  him,  I  knew  that  those 
pale  strange  eyes  were  looking  at  me.  I 
wanted  more  light,  but  did  not  know  where  to 
look  for  a  switch.  It  was  all  so  eery  and  odd 
that  I  began  to  wonder  if  my  host  were  not  a 
little  mad.  In  any  case,  I  was  tired  of  his 
speculations. 

"We  won't  dispute  on  the  indisputable,"  I 
said.  "But  I  should  have  thought  that  it  was 
the  interest  of  all  the  best  brains  of  the  world 
to  keep  up  what  you  call  the  conspiracy." 

He  dropped  into  his  chair  again. 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  slowly.  "Do  we  really 
get  the  best  brains  working  on  the  side  of  the 
compact?  Take  the  business  of  Government. 
When  all  is  said,  we  are  ruled  by  the  amateurs 
and  the  second-rate.    The  methods  of  our  de- 

7* 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

partments  would  bring  any  private  firm  to 
bankruptcy.  The  methods  of  Parliament — 
pardon  me — would  disgrace  any  board  of  di- 
rectors. Our  rulers  pretend  to  buy  expert 
knowledge,  but  they  never  pay  the  price  for  it 
that  a  business  man  would  pay,  and  if  they  get 
it  they  have  not  the  courage  to  use  it.  Where 
is  the  inducement  for  a  man  of  genius  to  sell 
his  brains  to  our  insipid  governors? 

"And  yet  knowledge  is  the  only  power — 
now  as  ever.  A  little  mechanical  device  will 
wreck  your  navies.  A  new  chemical  combina- 
tion will  upset  every  rule  of  war.  It  is  the 
same  with  our  commerce.  One  or  two  minute 
changes  might  sink  Britain  to  the  level  of 
Ecuador  or  give  China  the  key  of  the  world's 
wealth.  And  yet  we  never  dream  that  these 
things  are  possible.  We  think  our  castles  of 
sand  are  the  ramparts  of  the  universe." 

I  have  never  had  the  gift  of  the  gab,  but  I 
admire  it  in  others.  There  is  a  morbid  charm 
in  such  talk,  a  kind  of  exhilaration  of  which 
one  is  half  ashamed.  I  found  myself  inter- 
ested and  more  than  a  little  impressed. 

72 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

"But  surely,"  I  said,  "the  first  thing  a  dis- 
coverer does  is  to  make  his  discovery  public. 
He  wants  the  honour  and  glory,  and  he  wants 
money  for  it.  It  becomes  part  of  the  world's 
knowledge,  and  everything  is  readjusted  to 
meet  it.  That  was  what  happened  with  elec- 
tricity. You  call  our  civilisation  a  machine, 
but  it  is  something  far  more  flexible.  It  has 
the  power  of  adaptation  of  a  living  organism." 

"That  might  be  true  if  the  new  knowledge 
really  became  the  world's  property.  But  does 
it?  I  read  now  and  then  in  the  papers  that 
some  eminent  scientist  has  made  a  great  dis- 
covery. He  reads  a  paper  before  some  Acad- 
emy of  Science,  and  there  are  leading  articles 
on  it,  and  his  photograph  adorns  the  maga- 
zines. That  kind  of  man  is  not  the  danger. 
He  is  a  bit  of  the  machine,  a  party  to  the  com- 
pact. It  is  the  men  who  stand  outside  it  that 
are  to  be  reckoned  with,  the  artists  in  discov- 
ery who  will  never  use  their  knowledge  till 
they  can  use  it  with  full  effect.  Believe  me, 
the  biggest  brains  are  without  the  ring  which 
we  call  civilisation." 

73 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

Then  his  voice  seemed  to  hesitate.  "You 
may  hear  people  say  that  submarines  have 
done  away  with  the  battleship,  and  that  air- 
craft have  annulled  the  mastery  of  the  sea. 
That  is  what  our  pessimists  say.  But  do  you 
imagine  that  the  clumsy  submarine  or  the  fra- 
gile aeroplane  is  really  the  last  word  of  sci- 
ence ?" 

"No  doubt  they  will  develop,"  I  said, 
"but  by  that  time  the  power  of  the  defence 
will  have  advanced  also." 

He  shook  his  head.  "It  is  not  so.  Even 
now  the  knowledge  which  makes  possible 
great  engines  of  destruction  is  far  beyond  the 
capacity  of  any  defence.  You  see  only  the 
productions  of  second-rate  folk  who  are  in  a 
hurry  to  get  wealth  and  fame.  The  true 
knowledge,  the  deadly  knowledge,  is  still  kept 
secret.  But,  believe  me,  my  friend,  it  is 
there." 

He  paused  for  a  second,  and  I  saw  the  faint 
outline  of  the  smoke  from  his  cigar  against 
the  background  of  the  dark.    Then  he  quoted 

74 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

me  one  or  two  cases,  slowly,  as  if  in  some 
doubt  about  the  wisdom  of  his  words. 

It  was  these  cases  which  startled  me.  They 
were  of  different  kinds — a  great  calamity,  a 
sudden  breach  between  two  nations,  a  blight 
on  a  vital  crop,  a  war,  a  pestilence.  I  will  not 
repeat  them.  I  do  not  think  I  believed  in 
them  then,  and  now  I  believe  less.  But  they 
were  horribly  impressive,  as  told  in  that  quiet 
voice  in  that  sombre  room  on  that  dark  June 
night.  If  he  was  right,  these  things  had  not 
been  the  work  of  Nature  or  accident,  but  of  a 
devilish  art.  The  nameless  brains  that  he 
spoke  of,  working  silently  in  the  background, 
now  and  then  showed  their  power  by  some 
cataclysmic  revelation.  I  did  not  believe  him, 
but,  as  he  put  the  case,  showing  with  strange 
clearness  the  steps  in  the  game,  I  had  no 
words  to  protest. 

At  last  I  found  my  voice. 

"What  you  describe  is  super-anarchy,  and 
yet  it  makes  no  headway.  What  is  the  motive 
of  those  diabolical  brains?" 

He  laughed.    "How  should  I  be  able  to  tell 

75 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

you?  I  am  a  humble  inquirer,  and  in  my  re- 
searches I  come  on  curious  bits  of  fact.  But 
I  cannot  pry  into  motives.  I  only  know  of  the 
existence  of  great  extra-social  intelligences. 
Let  us  say  that  they  distrust  the  machine. 
They  may  be  idealists  and  desire  to  make  a 
new  world,  or  they  may  simply  be  artists,  lov- 
ing for  its  own  sake  the  pursuit  of  truth.  If 
I  were  to  hazard  a  guess,  I  should  say  that  it 
took  both  types  to  bring  about  results,  for  the 
second  find  the  knowledge  and  the  first  the 
will  to  use  it." 

A  recollection  came  back  to  me.  It  was  of 
a  hot  upland  meadow  in  Tyrol,  where  among 
acres  of  flowers  and  beside  a  leaping  stream 
I  was  breakfasting  after  a  morning  spent  in 
climbing  the  white  crags.  I  had  picked  up  a 
German  on  the  way,  a  small  man  of  the  Pro- 
fessor class,  who  did  me  the  honour  to  share 
my  sandwiches.  He  conversed  fluently,  but 
quaintly  in  English,  and  he  was,  I  remember, 
a  Nietzschean,  and  a  hot  rebel  against  the 
established  order.  "The  pity,"  he  cried,  "is 
that  the  reformers  do  not  know,  and  those  who 

76 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

know  are  too  idle  to  reform.  Some  day  there 
will  come  the  marriage  of  knowledge  and 
will,  and  then  the  world  will  march." 

"You  draw  an  awful  picture,"  I  said.  "But 
if  those  extra-social  brains  are  so  potent,  why 
after  all  do  they  effect  so  little?  A  dull  po- 
lice-officer, with  the  machine  behind  him,  can 
afford  to  laugh  at  most  experiments  in  anar- 
chy." 

"True,"  he  said,  "and  civilisation  will  win 
until  its  enemies  learn  from  it  the  importance 
of  the  machine.  The  compact  must  endure 
until  there  is  a  counter-compact.  Consider 
the  ways  of  that  form  of  foolishness  which  to- 
day we  call  nihilism  or  anarchy.  A  few  illit- 
erate bandits  in  a  Paris  slum  defy  the  world, 
and  in  a  week  they  are  in  jail.  Half  a  dozen 
crazy  Russian  intellectuels  in  Geneva  con- 
spire to  upset  the  Romanoffs  and  are  hunted 
down  by  the  police  of  Europe.  All  the  Gov- 
ernments and  their  not  very  intelligent  police 
forces  join  hands,  and  hey,  presto!  there  is  an 
end  of  the  conspirators.  For  civilisation 
knows  how  to  use  such  powers  as  it  has,  while 

77 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

the  immense  potentiality  of  the  unlicensed  is 
dissipated  in  vapour.  Civilisation  wins  be- 
cause it  is  a  world-wide  league;  its  enemies 
fail  because  they  are  parochial.  But  sup- 
posing  " 

Again  he  stopped  and  rose  from  his  chair. 
He  found  a  switch  and  flooded  the  room  with 
light.  I  glanced  up  blinking  to  see  my  host 
smiling  down  on  me,  a  most  benevolent  and 
courteous  old  gentleman.  He  had  resumed 
his  tinted  glasses. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  "for  leaving  you  in 
darkness  while  I  bored  you  with  my  gloomy 
prognostications.  A  recluse  is  apt  to  forget 
what  is  due  to  a  guest." 

He  handed  the  cigar-box  to  me,  and  pointed 
to  a  table  where  whisky  and  mineral  waters 
had  been  set  out. 

"I  want  to  hear  the  end  of  your  prophe- 
cies," I  said.    "You  were  saying ?" 

"I  said — supposing  anarchy  learned  from 
civilisation  and  became  international.  Oh,  I 
don't  mean  the  bands  of  advertising  donkeys 
who  call  themselves  International  Unions  of 

78 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

Workers  and  such-like  rubbish.  I  mean  if  the 
real  brain-stuff  of  the  world  were  internation- 
alised. Suppose  that  the  links  in  the  cordon 
of  civilisation  were  neutralised  by  other  links 
in  a  far  more  potent  chain.  The  earth  is 
seething  with  incoherent  power  and  unorgan- 
ised intelligence.  Have  you  ever  reflected  on 
the  case  of  China?  There  you  have  millions 
of  quick  brains  stifled  in  trumpery  crafts. 
They  have  no  direction,  no  driving  power,  so 
the  sum  of  their  efforts  is  futile,  and  the  world 
laughs  at  China.  Europe  throws  her  a  mil- 
lion or  two  on  loan  now  and  then,  and  she 
cynically  responds  by  begging  the  prayers  of 
Christendom.  And  yet,  I  say,  suppos- 
ing " 

"It's  a  horrible  idea,"  I  said,  "and,  thank 
God,  I  don't  believe  it  possible.  Mere  de- 
struction is  too  barren  a  creed  to  inspire  a  new 
Napoleon,  and  you  can  do  with  nothing  short 
of  one." 

"It  would  scarcely  be  destruction,"  he  re- 
plied gently.  "Let  us  call  it  iconoclasm,  the 
swallowing  of  formulas,  which  has  always  had 

79 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

its  full  retinue  of  idealists.  And  you  do  not 
want  a  Napoleon.  All  that  is  needed  is  direc- 
tion, which  could  be  given  by  men  of  far 
lower  gifts  than  a  Bonaparte.  In  a  word,  you 
want  a  Power-House,  and  then  the  age  of 
miracles  will  begin." 

I  got  up,  for  the  hour  was  late,  and  I  had 
had  enough  of  this  viewy  talk.  My  host  was 
smiling,  and  I  think  that  smile  was  the  thing 
I  really  disliked  about  him.  It  was  too — 
what  shall  I  say? — superior  and  Olympian. 

As  he  led  me  into  the  hall  he  apologised  for 
indulging  his  whims.  "But  you,  as  a  lawyer, 
should  welcome  the  idea.  If  there  is  an  atom 
of  truth  in  my  fancies,  your  task  is  far  bigger 
than  you  thought.  You  are  not  defending 
an  easy  case,  but  fighting  in  a  contest  where 
the  issues  are  still  doubtful.  That  should  en- 
courage your  professional  pride  .  .  ." 

By  all  the  rules  I  should  have  been  sleepy, 
for  it  was  past  midnight,  and  I  had  had  a  long 
day  in  the  open  air.  But  that  wretched  talk 
had  unsettled  me,  and  I  could  not  get  my 

80 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

mind  off  it.  I  have  reproduced  very  crudely 
the  substance  of  my  host's  conversation,  but 
no  words  of  mine  could  do  justice  to  his  eery 
persuasiveness.  There  was  a  kind  of  mag- 
netism in  the  man,  a  sense  of  vast  powers  and 
banked-up  fires,  which  would  have  given 
weight  to  the  tritest  platitudes.  I  had  a  hor- 
rible feeling  that  he  was  trying  to  convince 
me,  to  fascinate  me,  to  prepare  the  ground  for 
some  proposal.  Again  and  again  I  told  my- 
self it  was  crazy  nonsense,  the  heated  dream  of 
a  visionary,  but  again  and  again  I  came  back 
to  some  details  which  had  a  horrid  air  of  real- 
ity. If  the  man  was  a  romancer  he  had  an 
uncommon  gift  of  realism. 

I  flung  open  my  bedroom  window  and  let 
in  the  soft  air  of  the  June  night  and  the  scents 
from  leagues  of  clover  and  pines  and  sweet 
grasses.  It  momentarily  refreshed  me,  for  I 
could  not  believe  that  this  homely  and  gra- 
cious world  held  such  dire  portents. 

But  always  that  phrase  of  his,  the  "Power- 
House,"  kept  recurring.  You  know  how 
twisted  your  thoughts  get  during  a  wakeful 

81 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

night,  and  long  before  I  fell  asleep  towards 
morning  I  had  worked  myself  up  into  a  very 
complete  dislike  of  that  bland  and  smiling 
gentleman,  my  host.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to 
me  that  I  did  not  know  his  name,  and  that 
set  me  off  on  another  train  of  reflection. 

I  did  not  wait  to  be  called,  but  rose  about 
seven,  dressed,  and  went  downstairs.  I  heard 
the  sound  of  a  car  on  the  gravel  of  the  drive, 
and  to  my  delight  saw  that  Stagg  had  arrived. 
I  wanted  to  get  away  from  the  house  as  soon 
as  possible,  and  I  had  no  desire  to  meet  its 
master  again  in  this  world. 

The  grim  housekeeper,  who  answered  my 
summons,  received  my  explanation  in  silence. 
Breakfast  would  be  ready  in  twenty  minutes; 
eight  was  Mr.  Lumley's  hour  for  it. 

"Mr.  Andrew  Lumley?"  I  asked  with  a 
start. 

"Mr.  Andrew  Lumley,"  she  said. 

So  that  was  my  host's  name.  I  sat  down  at 
a  bureau  in  the  hall  and  did  a  wildly  foolish 
thing. 

I  wrote  a  letter,  beginning  "Dear  Mr.  Lum- 
82 


TELLS  OF  A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT 

ley,"  thanking  him  for  his  kindness  and  ex- 
plaining the  reason  of  my  early  departure. 
It  was  imperative,  I  said,  that  I  should  be 
in  London  by  midday.  Then  I  added:  "I 
wish  I  had  known  who  you  were  last  night, 
for  I  think  you  know  an  old  friend  of  mine, 
Charles  Pitt-Heron." 

Breakfastless  I  joined  Stagg  in  the  car,  and 
soon  we  were  swinging  down  from  the  uplands 
to  the  shallow  vale  of  the  Wey.  My  thoughts 
were  very  little  on  my  new  toy  or  on  the  mid- 
summer beauties  of  Surrey.  The  friend  of 
Pitt-Heron,  who  knew  about  his  going  to 
Bokhara,  was  the  maniac  who  dreamed  of  the 
"Power-House."  There  were  going  to  be 
dark  scenes  in  the  drama  before  it  was  played 
out. 


83 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  FOLLOW  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER- 
BUTLER 


CHAPTER  IV 

I    FOLLOW  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

MY  first  thought,  as  I  journeyed  towards 
London,  was  that  I  was  horribly  alone 
in  this  business.  Whatever  was  to  be  done  I 
must  do  it  myself,  for  the  truth  was  I  had  no 
evidence  which  any  authority  would  recog- 
nise. Pitt-Heron  was  the  friend  of  a  strange 
being  who  collected  objects  of  art,  probably 
passed  under  an  alias  in  South  London,  and 
had  absurd  visions  of  the  end  of  civilisation. 
That,  in  cold  black  and  white,  was  all  my 
story  came  to.  If  I  went  to  the  police  they 
would  laugh  at  me,  and  they  would  be  right. 
Now  I  am  a  sober  and  practical  person, 
but,  slender  though  my  evidence  was,  it 
brought  to  my  mind  the  most  absolute  con- 
viction. I  seemed  to  know  Pitt-Heron's  story 
as  if  I  had  heard  it  from  his  own  lips — his 
first  meeting  with  Lumley  and  their  growing 

87 ' 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

friendship;  his  initiation  into  secret  and  for- 
bidden things;  the  revolt  of  the  decent  man, 
appalled  that  his  freakishness  had  led  him  so 
far;  the  realisation  that  he  could  not  break  so 
easily  with  his  past,  and  that  Lumley  held 
him  in  his  power;  and  last,  the  mad  flight 
under  the  pressure  of  overwhelming  terror. 

I  could  read,  too,  the  purpose  of  that  flight. 
He  knew  the  Indian  frontier  as  few  men  know 
it,  and  in  the  wild  tangle  of  the  Pamirs  he 
hoped  to  baffle  his  enemy.  Then  from  some 
far  refuge  he  would  send  for  his  wife  and 
spend  the  rest  of  his  days  in  exile.  It  must 
have  been  an  omnipotent  terror  to  drive  such 
a  man,  young,  brilliant,  rich,  successful,  to 
the  fate  of  an  absconding  felon. 

But  Lumley  was  on  his  trail.  So  I  read  the 
telegram  I  had  picked  up  on  the  floor  of  the 
Blackheath  house,  and  my  business  was  to 
frustrate  the  pursuit.  Some  one  must  have 
gone  to  Bokhara,  some  creature  of  Lumley's, 
perhaps  the  super-butler  I  had  met  in  the 
County  Court.  The  telegram,  for  I  had  noted 
the  date,  had  been  received  on  the  27th  day 

88 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

of  May.  It  was  now  the  15th  of  June,  so  if 
some  one  had  started  immediately  on  its  re- 
ceipt, in  all  probability  he  would  by  now  be 
in  Bokhara. 

I  must  find  out  who  had  gone  and  endeav- 
our to  warn  Tommy.  I  calculated  that  it 
would  have  taken  him  seven  or  eight  days  to 
get  from  Moscow  by  the  Transcaspian;  prob- 
ably he  would  find  Pitt-Heron  gone,  but  in- 
quiries would  set  him  on  the  track.  I  might 
be  able  to  get  in  touch  with  him  through  the 
Russian  officials.  In  any  case,  if  Lumley  were 
stalking  Pitt-Heron,  I,  unknown  and  unsus- 
pected, would  be  stalking  Lumley. 

And  then  in  a  flash  I  realised  my  folly. 

The  wretched  letter  I  had  written  that 
morning  had  given  the  whole  show  away. 
Lumley  knew  that  I  was  a  friend  of  Pitt- 
Heron,  and  that  I  knew  that  he  was  a  friend 
of  Pitt-Heron.  If  my  guess  was  right,  friend- 
ship with  Lumley  was  not  a  thing  Charles  was 
likely  to  confess  to,  and  he  would  argue  that 
my  knowledge  of  it  meant  that  I  was  in 
Charles's  confidence.    I  would  therefore  know 

89 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

of  his  disappearance  and  its  cause,  and  alone 
in  London  would  connect  it  with  the  decorous 
bachelor  of  the  Albany.  My  letter  was  a 
warning  to  him  that  he  could  not  play  the 
game  unobserved,  and  I,  too,  would  be  sus- 
pect in  his  eyes. 

It  was  no  good  crying  over  spilt  milk,  and 
Lumley's  suspicions  must  be  accepted.  But  I 
confess  that  the  thought  gave  me  the  shivers. 
The  man  had  a  curious  terror  for  me,  a  terror 
I  cannot  hope  to  analyse  and  reproduce  for 
you.  My  bald  words  can  give  no  idea  of  the 
magnetic  force  of  his  talk,  the  sense  of  brood- 
ing and  unholy  craft.  I  was  proposing  to 
match  my  wits  against  a  master's,  one,  too, 
who  must  have  at  his  command  an  organisa- 
tion far  beyond  my  puny  efforts.  I  have  said 
that  my  first  feeling  was  that  of  loneliness  and 
isolation;  my  second  was  one  of  hopeless  in- 
significance. It  was  a  boy's  mechanical  toy 
arrayed  against  a  Power-House  with  its  shin- 
ing wheels  and  monstrous  dynamos. 

My  first  business  was  to  get  into  touch  with 
Tommy. 

90 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

At  that  time  I  had  a  friend  in  one  of  the 
Embassies,  whose  acquaintance  I  had  made  on 
a  dry-fly  stream  in  Hampshire.  I  will  not  tell 
you  his  name,  for  he  has  since  become  a  great 
figure  in  the  world's  diplomacy,  and  I  am  by 
no  means  certain  that  the  part  he  played  in  this 
tale  was  strictly  in  accordance  with  official 
etiquette.  I  had  assisted  him  on  the  legal 
side  in  some  of  the  international  worries  that 
beset  all  Embassies,  and  we  had  reached  the 
point  of  intimacy  which  is  marked  by  the  use 
of  Christian  names  and  by  dining  frequently 
together.  Let  us  call  him  Monsieur  Felix. 
He  was  a  grave  young  man,  slightly  my  senior, 
learned,  discreet,  and  ambitious,  but  with  an 
engaging  boyishness  cropping  up  now  and 
then  under  the  official  gold  lace.  It  occurred 
to  me  that  in  him  I  might  find  an  ally. 

I  reached  London  about  eleven  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  went  straight  to  Belgrave  Square. 
Felix  I  found  in  the  little  library  off  the  big 
secretaries'  room,  a  sunburnt  sportsman  fresh 
from  a  Norwegian  salmon  river.    I  asked  him 

9i 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

if  he  had  half  an  hour  to  spare,  and  was  told 
that  the  day  was  at  my  service. 

"You  know  Tommy  Deloraine?"  I  asked. 

He  nodded. 

"And  Charles  Pitt-Heron?" 

"I  have  heard  of  him." 

"Well,  here  is  my  trouble.  I  have  reason 
to  believe  that  Tommy  has  joined  Pitt-Heron 
in  Bokhara.  If  he  has,  my  mind  will  be 
greatly  relieved,  for,  though  I  can't  tell  you 
the  story,  I  can  tell  you  that  Pitt  Heron  is  in 
very  considerable  danger.  Can  you  help 
me?" 

Felix  reflected.  "That  should  be  simple 
enough.  I  can  wire  in  cypher  to  the  Military 
Governor.  The  police  there  are  pretty  effi- 
cient, as  you  may  imagine,  and  travellers  don't 
come  and  go  without  being  remarked.  I 
should  be  able  to  give  you  an  answer  within 
twenty-four  hours.  But  I  must  describe  Tom- 
my.   How  does  one  do  that  in  telegraphese?" 

"I  want  you  to  tell  me  another  thing,"  I 
said.  "You  remember  that  Pitt-Heron  has 
some  reputation  as  a  Central  Asian  traveller. 

92 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

Tommy,  as  you  know,  is  as  mad  as  a  hatter. 
Suppose  these  two  fellows  at  Bokhara,  want- 
ing to  make  a  long  trek  into  wild  country — 
how  would  they  go?  You've  been  there,  and 
know  the  lie  of  the  land." 

Felix  got  down  a  big  German  atlas,  and  for 
half  an  hour  we  pored  over  it.  From  Bok- 
hara, he  said,  the  only  routes  for  madmen  ran 
to  the  south.  East  and  north  you  got  into 
Siberia;  west  lay  the  Transcaspian  desert;  but 
southward  you  might  go  through  the  Hissar 
range  by  Pamirski  Post  to  Gilgit  and  Kash- 
mir, or  you  might  follow  up  the  Oxus  and 
enter  the  north  of  Afghanistan,  or  you  might 
go  by  Merv  into  north-eastern  Persia.  The 
first  he  thought  the  likeliest  route,  if  a  man 
wanted  to  travel  fast. 

I  asked  him  to  put  in  his  cable  a  sugges- 
tion about  watching  the  Indian  roads,  and  left 
him  with  a  promise  of  early  enlightenment. 

Then  I  went  down  to  the  Temple,  fixed 
some  consultations,  and  spent  a  quiet  evening 
in  my  rooms.  I  had  a  heavy  sense  of  impend- 
ing disaster,   not  unnatural   in   the   circum- 

93 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

stances.  I  really  cannot  think  what  it  was  that 
held  me  to  the  job,  for  I  don't  mind  admitting 
that  I  felt  pretty  queasy  about  it.  Partly,  no 
doubt,  liking  for  Tommy  and  Ethel,  partly 
regret  for  that  unfortunate  fellow  Pitt-Heron,* 
most  of  all,  I  think,  dislike  of  Lumley.  That 
bland  super-man  had  fairly  stirred  my  prosaic 
antipathies. 

That  night  I  went  carefully  over  every  item 
in  the  evidence  to  try  and  decide  on  my  next 
step.  I  had  got  to  find  out  more  about  my 
enemies*  Lumley  I  was  pretty  certain  would 
baffle  me,  but  I  thought  I  might  have  a  better 
chance  with  the  super-butler.  As  it  turned 
out  I  hit  his  trail  almost  at  once. 

Next  day  I  was  in  a  case  at  the  Old  Bailey. 
It  was  an  important  prosecution  for  fraud, 
and  I  appeared,  with  two  leaders,  for  the  Bank 
concerned.  The  amazing  and  almost  incredi- 
ble thing  about  this  story  of  mine  is  the  way 
clues  kept  rolling  in  unsolicited,  and  I  was  to 
get  another  from  this  dull  prosecution.  I 
suppose  that  the  explanation  is  that  the  world 

94 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

is  full  of  clues  to  everything,  and  that,  if  a 
man's  mind  is  sharp-set  on  any  quest,  he  hap- 
pens *tb  notice  and  take  advantage  of  what 
otherwise  he  would  miss.  « 

My  leaders  were  both  absent  the  first  day, 
and  I  had  to  examine  our  witnesses  alone. 
Towards  the  close  of  the  afternoon  I  put  a 
fellow  in  the  box,  an  oldish,  drink-sodden 
clerk  from  a  Cannon  Street  bucket-shop.  His 
evidence  was  valuable  for  our  case,  but  I  was 
very  doubtful  how  he  would  stand  a  cross-ex- 
amination as  to  credit.  His  name  was  Routh, 
and  he  spoke  with  a  strong  North-country  ac- 
cent. But  what  caught  my  attention  was  his 
face.  His  jaw  looked  as  if  it  had  been  made 
in  two  pieces  which  did  not  fit,  and  he  had 
little,  bright  protuberant  eyes.  At  my  first 
glance  I  was  conscious  of  a  recollection. 

He  was  still  in  the  box  when  the  Court 
rose,  and  I  informed  the  solicitors  that  before 
going  further  I  wanted  a  conference  with  the 
witness.  I  mentioned  also  that  I  should  like 
to  see  him  alone.  A  few  minutes  later  he  was 
brought  to  my  chambers,  and  I  put  one  or  two 

95 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

obvious  questions  on  the  case,  till  the  man- 
aging clerk  who  accompanied  him  announced 
with  many  excuses  that  he  must  hurry  away. 
Then  I  shut  the  door,  gave  Mr.  Routh  a  cigar, 
and  proceeded  to  conduct  a  private  inquiry. 

He  was  a  pathetic  being,  only  too  ready  to 
talk.  I  learned  the  squalid  details  of  his  con- 
tinuous misfortunes.  He  had  been  the  son  of 
a  dissenting  minister  in  Northumberland,  and 
had  drifted  through  half  a  dozen  occupations 
till  he  found  his  present  unsavoury  billet. 
Truth  was  written  large  on  his  statement,  he 
had  nothing  to  conceal,  for  his  foible  was 
folly,  not  crime,  and  he  had  not  a  rag  of  pride 
to  give  him  reticence.  He  boasted  that  he  was 
a  gentleman  and  well-educated,  too,  but  he 
had  never  had  a  chance.  His  brother  had  ad- 
vised him  badly;  his  brother  was  too  clever 
for  a  prosaic  world;  always  through  his  remi- 
niscences came  this  echo  of  fraternal  admira- 
tion and  complaint. 

It  was  about  the  brother  I  wanted  to  know, 
and  Mr.  Routh  was  very  willing  to  speak.  In- 
deed, it  was  hard  to  disentangle  facts  from  his 

96 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

copious  outpourings.  The  brother  had  been 
an  engineer  and  a  highly  successful  one ;  had 
dallied  with  politics,  too,  and  had  been  a  great 
inventor.  He  had  put  Mr.  Routh  on  to  a 
South  American  speculation,  where  he  had 
made  a  little  money  but  speedily  lost  it  again. 
Oh,  he  had  been  a  good  brother  in  his  way, 
and  had  often  helped  him,  but  he  was  a  busy 
man,  and  his  help  never  went  quite  far 
enough.  Besides,  he  did  not  like  to  apply  to 
him  too  often.  I  gathered  that  the  brother 
was  not  a  person  to  take  liberties  with. 

I  asked  him  what  he  was  doing  now. 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Routh,  "that  is  what  I  wish 
I  could  tell  you.  I  will  not  conceal  from  you 
that  for  the  moment  I  am  in  considerable 
financial  straits,  and  this  case,  though  my 
hands  are  clean  enough,  God  knows,  will  not 
make  life  easier  for  me.  My  brother  is  a  mys- 
terious man,  whose  business  often  takes  him 
abroad.  I  have  never  known  even  his  ad- 
dress, for  I  write  always  to  a  London  office 
from  which  my  communications  are  forward- 
ed.   I  only  know  that  he  is  in  some  big  elec- 

97 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

trical  business,  for  I  remember  that  he  once 
let  drop  the  remark  that  he  was  in  charge  of 
some  power  station.  No,  I  do  not  think  it  is 
in  London,  probably  somewhere  abroad.  I 
heard  from  him  a  fortnight  ago,  and  he  told 
me  he  was  just  leaving  England  for  a  couple 
of  months.  It  is  very  annoying,  for  I  want 
badly  to  get  into  touch  with  him." 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Routh,"  I  said,  "I  be- 
lieve I  have  met  your  brother.  Is  he  like  you 
in  any  way?" 

"We  have  a  strong  family  resemblance,  but 
he  is  taller  and  slimmer.  He  has  been  more 
prosperous,  and  has  lived  a  healthier  life,  you 
see." 

"Do  you  happen  to  know,"  I  asked,  "if  he 
ever  uses  another  name?  I  don't  think  that 
the  man  I  knew  was  called  Routh." 

The  clerk  flushed.  "I  think  it  highly  un- 
likely that  my  brother  would  use  an  alias. 
He  has  done  nothing  to  disgrace  a  name  of 
which  we  are  proud." 

I  told  him  that  my  memory  had  played  me 
false,  and  we  parted  on  very  good  terms.   He 

98 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

was  an  innocent  soul,  one  of  those  people  that 
clever  rascals  get  to  do  their  dirty  work  for 
them.  But  there  was  no  mistaking  the  resem- 
blance. There,  without  the  brains  and  force 
and  virility,  went  my  super-butler  of  Black- 
heath,  who  passed  under  the  name  of  Tuke. 

The  clerk  had  given  me  the  name  of  the 
office  to  whose  address  he  had  written  to  his 
brother.  I  was  not  surprised  to  find  that  it 
was  that  of  the  firm  of  stockbrokers  for  whom 
I  was  still  acting  in  the  bearer-bonds  case 
where  I  had  heard  Pavia's  name. 

I  rang  up  the  partner  whom  I  knew  and 
told  him  a  very  plausible  story  of  having  a 
message  for  one  of  Mr.  Pavia's  servants,  and 
asked  him  if  he  were  in  touch  with  them  and 
could  forward  letters.  He  made  me  hold  the 
line,  and  then  came  back  and  told  me  that  he 
had  forwarded  letters  for  Tuke,  the  butler, 
and  one  Routh  who  was  a  groom  or  footman. 
Tuke  had  gone  abroad  to  join  his  master  and 
he  did  not  know  his  address.  But  he  advised 
me  to  write  to  the  White  Lodge. 

I  thanked  him  and  rang  off.    That  was  set- 

99 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

tied  anyhow.  Tuke's  real  name  was  Routh, 
and  it  was  Tuke  who  had  gone  to  Bokhara. 

My  next  step  was  to  ring  up  Macgillivray 
at  Scotland  Yard  and  get  an  appointment  in 
half  an  hour's  time.  Macgillivray  had  been 
at  the  Bar — I  had  read  in  his  chambers — and 
was  now  one  of  the  heads  of  the  Criminal  In- 
vestigation Department.  I  was  about  to  ask 
him  for  information  which  he  was  in  no  way 
bound  to  give  me,  but  I  presumed  on  our  old 
acquaintance. 

I  asked  him  first  whether  he  had  ever  heard 
of  a  secret  organisation  which  went  under  the 
name  of  the  Power-House.  He  laughed  out 
loud  at  my  question. 

"I  should  think  we  have  several  hundreds 
of  such  pet  names  on  our  records,"  he  said. 
"Everything  from  the  Lodge  of  the  Baldfaced 
Ravens  to  Solomon's  Seal  No.  X.  Fancy  no- 
menclature is  the  relaxation  of  the  tired  an- 
archist, and  matters  very  little.  The  danger- 
ous fellows  have  no  names,  no  numbers  even, 
which  we  can  get  hold  of.    But  I'll  get  a  man 

ioo 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

to  look  up  our  records.  There  may  be  some- 
thing filed  about  your  Power-House." 

My  second  question  he  answered  differ- 
ently. "Routh!  Routh!  Why,  yes,  there  was 
a  Routh  we  had  dealings  with  a  dozen  years 
ago,  when  I  used  to  go  the  North-Eastern 
circuit.  He  was  a  trade-union  official  who 
bagged  the  funds,  and  they  couldn't  bring  him 
to  justice  because  of  the  ridiculous  extra-legal 
status  they  possess.  He  knew  it,  and  played 
their  own  privileges  against  them.  Oh,  yes, 
he  was  a  very  complete  rogue.  I  once  saw 
him  at  ■  meeting  in  Sunderland,  and  I  re- 
member his  face — sneering  eyes,  diabolically 
clever  mouth,  and  with  it  all  as  smug  as  a 
family  butler.  He  has  disappeared  from  Eng- 
land— at  least  we  haven't  heard  of  him  for 
some  years,  but  I  can  show  you  his  photo- 
graph." 

Macgillivray  took  from  a  lettered  cabinet  a 
bundle  of  cards,  selected  one  and  tossed  it 
towards  me.  It  was  that  of  a  man  of  thirty 
or  so,  with  short  side-whiskers  and  a  drooping 
moustache.    The  eyes,  the  ill-fitting  jaw,  and 

IOI 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

the  brow  were  those  of  my  friend,  Mr.  Tuke, 
brother  and  patron  of  the  sorrowful  Mr. 
Routh,  who  had  already  that  afternoon  occu- 
pied my  attention. 

Macgillivray  promised  to  make  certain  in- 
quiries, and  I  walked  home  in  a  state  of  ela- 
tion. Now  I  knew  for  certain  who  had  gone 
to  Bokhara,  and  I  knew  something,  too,  of 
the  traveller's  past.  A  discredited  genius  was 
the  very  man  for  Lumley's  schemes — one  who 
asked  for  nothing  better  than  to  use  his  brains 
outside  the  ring-fence  of  convention.  Some- 
where in  the  wastes  of  Turkestan  the  ex-trade- 
union  official  was  in  search  of  Pitt-Heron.  I 
did  not  fancy  that  Mr.  Tuke  would  be  very 
squeamish. 

I  dined  at  the  club  and  left  early.  Going 
home,  I  had  an  impression  that  I  was  being 
shadowed. 

You  know  the  feeling  that  some  one  is 
watching  you,  a  sort  of  sensation  which  the 
mind  receives  without  actual  evidence.  If  the 
watcher  is  behind  where  you  can't  see  him  you 
have  a  cold  feeling  between  your  shoulders. 

102 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

I  daresay  it  is  a  legacy  from  the  days  when  the 
cave-man  had  to  look  pretty  sharp  to  keep 
from  getting  his  enemy's  knife  between  the 
ribs. 

It  was  a  bright  summer  evening,  and  Pic- 
cadilly had  its  usual  crowd  of  motor-cars  and 
busses  and  foot  passengers.  I  halted  twice, 
once  in  St.  James's  Street  and  once  at  the  cor- 
ner of  Stratton  Street,  and  retraced  my  steps 
for  a  bit,  and  each  time  I  had  the  impression 
that  some  one  a  hundred  yards  or  so  off  had 
done  the  same.  My  instinct  was  to  turn  round 
and  face  him,  whoever  he  was,  but  I  saw  that 
that  was  foolishness.  Obviously  in  such  a 
crowd  I  could  get  no  certainty  in  the  matter, 
so  I  put  it  out  of  my  mind. 

I  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening  in  my  rooms, 
reading  cases  and  trying  to  keep  my  thoughts 
off  Central  Asia.  About  ten  I  was  rung  up 
on  the  telephone  by  Felix.  He  had  had  his 
answer  from  Bokhara.  Pitt-Heron  had  left 
with  a  small  caravan  on  June  2d  by  the  main 
road  through  the  Hissar  range.  Tommy  had 
arrived  on  June  10th  and  on  the  12th  had  set 

103 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

off  with  two  servants  on  the  same  trail.  Trav- 
elling the  lighter  of  the  two,  he  should  have 
overtaken  Pitt-Heron  by  the  15th  at  latest. 

That  was  yesterday,  and  my  mind  was  im- 
mensely relieved.  Tommy  in  such  a  situation 
was  a  tower  of  strength,  for,  whatever  his  fail- 
ings in  politics,  I  knew  no  one  I  would  rather 
have  with  me  to  go  tiger-shooting. 

Next  day  the  sense  of  espionage  increased. 
I  was  in  the  habit  of  walking  down  to  the 
Temple  by  way  of  Pall  Mall  and  the  Em- 
bankment, but,  as  I  did  not  happen  to  be  in 
Court  that  morning,  I  resolved  to  make  a 
detour  and  test  my  suspicions.  There  seemed 
to  be  nobody  in  Down  Street  as  I  emerged 
from  my  flat,  but  I  had  not  walked  five  yards 
before,  turning  back,  I  saw  a  man  enter  from 
the  Piccadilly  end,  while  another  moved 
across  the  Hertford  Street  opening.  It  may 
have  been  only  my  imagination,  but  I  was  con- 
vinced that  these  were  my  watchers. 

I  walked  up  Park  Lane,  for  it  seemed  to  me 
that  by  taking  the  Tube  at  the  Marble  Arch 
Station  I  could  bring  matters  to  the  proof.    I 

104 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

have  a  knack  of  observing  small  irrelevant 
details,  and  I  happened  to  have  noticed  that 
a  certain  carriage  in  the  train  which  left  Mar- 
ble Arch  about  9.30  stopped  exactly  opposite 
the  exit  at  the  Chancery  Lane  Station,  and  by 
hurrying  up  the  passage  one  could  just  catch 
the  lift  which  served  an  earlier  train  and  so 
reach  the  street  before  any  of  the  other  trav- 
ellers. 

I  performed  this  manoeuvre  with  success, 
caught  the  early  lift,  reached  the  street  and 
took  cover  behind  a  pillar-box  from  which 
I  could  watch  the  exit  of  passengers  from  the 
stairs.  I  judged  that  my  tracker,  if  he  missed 
me  below,  would  run  up  the  stairs  rather  than 
wait  for  the  lift.  Sure  enough,  a  breathless 
gentleman  appeared,  who  scanned  the  street 
eagerly,  and  then  turned  to  the  lift  to  watch 
the  emerging  passengers.  It  was  clear  that 
the  espionage  was  no  figment  of  my  brain. 

I  walked  slowly  to  my  chambers  and  got 
through  the  day's  work  as  best  I  could,  for  my 
mind  was  preoccupied  with  the  unpleasant 
business  in  which  I  found  myself  entangled. 

105 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

I  would  have  given  a  year's  income  to  be  hon- 
estly quit  of  it,  but  there  seemed  to  be  no  way 
of  escape.  The  maddening  thing  was  that  I 
could  do  so  little.  There  was  no  chance  of 
forgetting  anxiety  in  strenuous  work.  I  could 
only  wait  with  the  patience  at  my  command, 
and  hope  for  the  one  chance  in  a  thousand 
which  I  might  seize.  I  felt  miserably  that  it 
was  no  game  for  me.  I  had  never  been 
brought  up  to  harry  wild  beasts  and  risk  my 
neck  twice  a  day  at  polo  like  Tommy  Delo- 
raine.  I  was  a  peaceful,  sedentary  man,  a 
lover  of  a  quiet  life,  with  no  appetite  for 
perils  and  commotions.  But  I  was  beginning 
to  realize  that  I  was  very  obstinate. 

At  four  o'clock  I  left  the  Temple  and 
walked  to  the  Embassy.  I  had  resolved  to 
banish  the  espionage  from  my  mind,  for  that 
was  the  least  of  my  difficulties. 

Felix  gave  me  an  hour  of  his  valuable  time. 
It  was  something  that  Tommy  had  joined 
Pitt-Heron,  but  there  were  other  matters  to 
be  arranged  in  that  far  country.     The  time 

1 06 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

had  come,  in  my  opinion,  to  tell  him  the 
whole  story. 

The  telling  was  a  huge  relief  to  my  mind. 
He  did  not  laugh  at  me  as  I  had  half  feared, 
but  took  the  whole  thing  as  gravely  as  possi- 
ble. In  his  profession,  I  fancy,  he  had  found 
too  many  certainties  behind  suspicions  to  treat 
anything  as  trivial.  The  next  step,  he  said, 
was  to  warn  the  Russian  police  of  the  presence 
of  the  man  called  Saronov  and  the  super-but- 
ler. Happily  we  had  materials  for  the  de- 
scription of  Tuke  or  Routh,  and  I  could  not 
believe  that  such  a  figure  would  be  hard  to 
trace.  Felix  cabled  again  in  cypher,  asking 
that  the  two  should  be  watched,  more  espe- 
cially if  there  was  reason  to  believe  that  they 
had  followed  Tommy's  route.  Once  more  we 
got  out  the  big  map  and  discussed  the  possible 
ways.  It  seemed  to  me  a  land  created  by 
Providence  for  surprises,  for  the  roads  fol- 
lowed the  valleys,  and  to  the  man  who  trav- 
elled light  there  must  be  many  short  cuts 
through  the  hills. 

I  left  the  Embassy  before  six  o'clock  and, 
107 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

crossing  the  Square  engrossed  with  my  own 
thoughts,  ran  full  into  Lumley. 

I  hope  I  played  my  part  well,  though  I 
could  not  repress  a  start  of  surprise.  He  wore 
a  grey  morning-coat  and  a  white  top-hat  and 
looked  the  image  of  benevolent  respectability. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Leithen,"  he  said,  "we  meet 
again." 

I  murmured  something  about  my  regrets 
at  my  early  departure  three  days  ago,  and 
added  the  feeble  joke  that  I  wished  he  would 
hurry  on  his  Twilight  of  Civilisation,  for  the 
burden  of  it  was  becoming  too  much  for  me. 

He  looked  me  in  the  eyes  with  all  the 
friendliness  in  the  world.  "So  you  have  not 
forgotten  our  evening's  talk?  You  owe  me 
something,  my  friend,  for  giving  you  a  new 
interest  in  your  profession." 

"I  owe  you  much,"  I  said,  "for  your  hospi- 
tality, your  advice,  and  your  warnings." 

He  was  wearing  his  tinted  glasses  and 
peered  quizzically  into  my  face. 

"I  am  going  to  make  a  call  in  Grosvenor 
Place,"  he  said,  "and  shall  beg  in  return  the 

108 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SUPER-BUTLER 

pleasure  of  your  company.    So  you  know  my 
young  friend,  Pitt-Heron?" 

With  an  ingenuous  countenance  I  explained 
that  he  had  been  at  Oxford  with  me  and  that 
we  had  common  friends. 

"A  brilliant  young  man,"  said  Lumley. 
"Like  you,  he  has  occasionally  cheered  an  old 
man's  solitude.  And  he  has  spoken  of  me  to 
you?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  lying  stoutly.  "He  used  to 
tell  me  about  your  collections."  (If  Lumley 
knew  Charles  well  he  would  find  me  out,  for 
the  latter  would  not  have  crossed  the  road 
for  all  the  treasures  of  the  Louvre.) 

"Ah,  yes,  I  have  picked  up  a  few  things. 
If  ever  you  should  care  to  see  them  I  should 
be  honoured.  You  are  a  connoisseur?  Of  a 
sort?  You  interest  me  for  I  should  have 
thought  your  taste  lay  in  other  directions 
than  the  dead  things  of  art.  Pitt-Heron  is  no 
collector.  He  loves  life  better  than  art,  as  a 
young  man  should.  A  great  traveller  our 
friend — the  Laurence  Oliphant  or  Richard 
Burton  of  our  day." 

109 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

We  stopped  at  a  house  in  Grosvenor  Place, 
and  he  relinquished  my  arm.  "Mr.  Leithen," 
he  said,  "a  word  from  one  who  wishes  you  no 
ill.  You  are  a  friend  of  Pitt-Heron,  but 
where  he  goes  you  cannot  follow.  Take  my 
advice  and  keep  out  of  his  affairs.  You  will 
do  no  good  to  him,  and  you  may  bring  your- 
self into  serious  danger.  You  are  a  man  of 
sense,  a  practical  man,  so  I  speak  to  you 
frankly.  But,  remember,  I  do  not  warn 
twice." 

He  took  off  his  glasses,  and  his  light,  wild 
eyes  looked  me  straight  in  the  face.  All  be- 
nevolence had  gone,  and  something  implaca- 
ble and  deadly  burned  in  them.  Before  I 
could  say  a  word  in  reply  he  shuffled  up  the 
steps  of  the  house  and  was  gone.  .  .  . 


no 


CHAPTER  V 
I  TAKE  A  PARTNER 


CHAPTER  V 

I  TAKE  A  PARTNER 

THAT  meeting  with  Lumley  scared  me 
badly,  but  it  also  clinched  my  resolu- 
tion. The  most  pacific  fellow  on  earth  can 
be  gingered  into  pugnacity.  I  had  now  more 
than  my  friendship  for  Tommy  and  my  sym- 
pathy with  Pitt-Heron  to  urge  me  on.  A 
man  had  tried  to  bully  me,  and  that  roused 
all  the  worst  stubbornness  of  my  soul.  I  was 
determined  to  see  the  game  through  at  any 
cost. 

But  I  must  have  an  ally  if  my  nerves  were 
to  hold  out,  and  my  mind  turned  at  once  to 
Tommy's  friend  Chapman.  I  thought  with 
comfort  of  the  bluff  independence  of  the  La- 
bour member.  So  that  night  at  the  House  I 
hunted  him  out  in  the  smoking-room. 

He  had  been  having  a  row  with  the  young 
ii3 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

bloods  of  my  party  that  afternoon  and  re- 
ceived me  ungraciously. 

"I'm  about  sick  of  you  fellows,"  he 
growled.  (I  shall  not  attempt  to  reproduce 
Chapman's  accent.  He  spoke  rich  Yorkshire 
with  a  touch  of  the  drawl  of  the  western 
dales.)  "They  went  and  spoiled  the  best 
speech,  though  I  say  it  as  shouldn't,  which 
this  old  place  has  heard  for  a  twelvemonth. 
I've  been  workin'  for  days  at  it  in  the  Library. 
I  was  tellin'  them  how  much  more  bread  cost 
under  Protection,  and  the  Jew  Hilderstein 
started  a  laugh  because  I  said  kilometres  for 
kilogrammes.  It  was  just  a  slip  o'  the  tongue, 
for  I  had  it  right  in  my  notes,  and  besides 
there  furrin'  words  don't  matter  a  curse. 
Then  that  young  lord  as  sits  for  East  Clay- 
gate  gets  up  and  goes  out  as  I  was  gettin'  into 
my  peroration,  and  he  drops  his  topper  and 
knocks  off  old  Higgins's  spectacles,  and  all 
the  idiots  laughed.  After  that  I  gave  it  them 
hot  and  strong,  and  got  called  to  order.  And 
then  Wattles,  him  as  used  to  be  as  good  a  so- 
cialist as  me,  replied  for  the  Government  and 

114 


I  TAKE  A  PARTNER 

his  blamed  Board  and  said  that  the  Board 
thought  this  and  the  Board  thought  that,  and 
was  damned  if  the  Board  would  stir  its 
stumps.  Well  I  mind  the  day  when  I  was 
hanging  on  to  the  Board's  coat-tails  in  Hyde 
Park  to  keep  it  from  talking  treason." 

It  took  me  a  long  time  to  get  Chapman  set- 
tled down  and  anchored  to  a  drink. 

"I  want  you,"  I  said,  "to  tell  me  about 
Routh — you  know  the  fellow  I  mean — the  ex- 
Union-Leader." 

At  that  he  fairly  blazed  up. 

"There  you  are,  you  Tories,"  he  shouted, 
causing  a  pale  Liberal  member  on  the  next 
sofa  to  make  a  hurried  exit.  "You  can't  fight 
fair.  You  hate  the  Unions,  and  you  rake  up 
any  rotten  old  prejudice  to  discredit  them. 
You  can  find  out  about  Routh  for  yourself,  for 
I'm  damned  if  I  help  you." 

I  saw  I  could  do  nothing  with  Chapman 
unless  I  made  a  clean  breast  of  it,  so  for  the 
second  time  that  day  I  told  the  whole  story. 

I  couldn't  have  wished  for  a  better  audi- 
ence.   He  got  wildly  excited  before  I  was  half 

ii5 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

through  with  it.  No  doubt  of  the  correctness 
of  my  evidence  ever  entered  his  head,  for, 
like  most  of  his  party,  he  hated  anarchism 
worse  than  capitalism,  and  the  notion  of  a 
highly  capitalised,  highly  scientific,  highly 
undemocratic  anarchism  fairly  revolted  his 
soul.  Besides,  he  adored  Tommy  Deloraine. 
Routh,  he  told  me,  had  been  a  young  en- 
gineer of  a  superior  type,  with  a  job  in  a  big 
shop  at  Sheffield.  He  had  professed  advanced 
political  views,  and,  although  he  had  strictly 
no  business  to  be  there,  had  taken  a  large  part 
in  Trade  Union  work,  and  was  treasurer  of 
one  big  branch.  Chapman  had  met  him  often 
at  conferences  and  on  platforms,  and  had  been 
impressed  by  the  fertility  and  ingenuity  of 
his  mind  and  the  boldness  of  his  purpose.  He 
was  the  leader  of  the  left  wing  of  the  move- 
ment, and  had  that  gift  of  half-scientific,  half- 
philosophic  jargon  which  is  dear  at  all  times 
to  the  hearts  of  the  half-baked.  A  seat  in 
Parliament  had  been  repeatedly  offered  him, 
but  he  had  always  declined ;  wisely,  Chapman 

116 


I  TAKE  A  PARTNER 

thought,  for  he  judged  him  the  type  which  is 
more  effective  behind  the  scenes. 

But  with  all  his  ability  he  had  not  been 
popular.  "He  was  a  cold-blooded,  sneering 
devil,"  as  Chapman  put  it,  "a  sort  of  Parnell. 
He  tyrannised  over  his  followers,  and  he  was 
the  rudest  brute  I  ever  met." 

Then  followed  the  catastrophe,  in  which  it 
became  apparent  that  he  had  speculated  with 
the  funds  of  his  Union  and  had  lost  a  large 
sum.  Chapman,  however,  was  suspicious  of 
these  losses,  and  was  inclined  to  suspect  that 
he  had  the  money  all  the  time  in  a  safe  place. 
A  year  or  two  earlier  the  Unions,  greatly  to 
the  disgust  of  old-fashioned  folk,  had  been 
given  certain  extra-legal  privileges,  and  this 
man  Routh  had  been  one  of  the  chief  advo- 
cates of  the  Unions'  claims.  Now  he  had  the 
cool  effrontery  to  turn  the  tables  on  them  and 
use  those  very  privileges  to  justify  his  action 
and  escape  prosecution. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done.  Some  of  the 
fellows,  said  Chapman,  swore  to  wring  his 
neck,  but  he  did  not  give  them  the  chance. 

117 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

He  had  disappeared  from  England,  and  was 
generally  believed  to  be  living  in  some  for- 
eign capital. 

"What  I  would  give  to  be  even  with  the 
swine!"  cried  my  friend,  clenching  and  un- 
clenching his  big  fist.  "But  we're  up  against 
no  small  thing  in  Josiah  Routh.  There  isn't 
a  crime  on  earth  he'd  stick  at,  and  he's  as 
clever  as  the  old  Devil,  his  master." 

"If  that's  how  you  feel,  I  can  trust  you  to 
back  me  up,"  I  said.  "And  the  first  thing  I 
want  you  to  do  is  to  come  and  stay  at  my  flat. 
God  knows  what  may  happen  next,  and  two 
men  are  better  than  one.  I  tell  you  frankly, 
I'm  nervous,  and  I  would  like  to  have  you 
with  me." 

Chapman  had  no  objection.  I  accompa- 
nied him  to  his  Bloomsbury  lodgings,  where 
he  packed  a  bag,  and  we  returned  to  the  Down 
Street  flat.  The  sight  of  his  burly  figure  and 
sagacious  face  was  a  relief  to  me  in  the  mys- 
terious darkness  where  I  now  found  myself 

walking. 

118 


I  TAKE  A  PARTNER 

Thus  begun  my  housekeeping  with  Chap- 
man— one  of  the  queerest  episodes  in  my  life. 
He  was  the  best  fellow  in  the  world,  but  I 
found  that  I  had  misjudged  his  character.  To 
see  him  in  the  House,  you  would  have  thought 
him  a  piece  of  granite,  with  his  Yorkshire 
bluntness  and  hard,  downright,  north-country 
sense.  He  had  all  that  somewhere  inside  him, 
but  he  was  also  as  romantic  as  a  boy.  The 
new  situation  delighted  him.  He  was  quite 
clear  that  it  was  another  case  of  the  strife  be- 
tween Capital  and  Labour — Tommy  and  I 
standing  for  Labour,  though  he  used  to  refer 
to  Tommy  in  public  as  a  "gilded  popinjay," 
and  only  a  month  before  had  described  me  in 
the  House  as  a  "viperous  lackey  of  Capital- 
ism." It  was  the  best  kind  of  strife,  in  which 
you  had  not  to  meet  your  adversary  with  long- 
winded  speeches  but  might  any  moment  get 
a  chance  to  pummel  him  with  your  fists. 

He  made  me  ache  with  laughter.  The  spy- 
ing business  used  to  rouse  him  to  fury.  I  don't 
think  he  was  tracked  as  I  was,  but  he  chose 
to  fancy  he  was,  and  was  guilty  of  assault  and 

119 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

battery  on  one  butcher's  boy,  two  cabbies,  and 
a  gentleman  who  turned  out  to  be  a  bookmak- 
er's assistant.  This  side  of  him  got  to  be  an 
infernal  nuisance,  and  I  had  many  rows  with 
him.  Among  other  things,  he  chose  to  sus- 
pect my  man  Waters  of  treachery — Waters, 
who  was  the  son  of  a  gardener  at  home,  and 
hadn't  wits  enough  to  put  up  an  umbrella 
when  it  rained. 

"You're  not  taking  this  business  rightly," 
he  maintained  one  night.  "What's  the  good 
of  waiting  for  these  devils  to  down  you?  Let's 
go  out  and  down  them."  And  he  announced 
his  intention,  from  which  no  words  of  mine 
could  dissuade  him,  of  keeping  watch  on  Mr. 
Andrew  Lumley  at  the  Albany. 

His  resolution  led  to  a  complete  disregard 
of  his  Parliamentary  duties.  Deputations  of 
constituents  waited  for  him  in  vain.  Of 
course  he  never  got  a  sight  of  Lumley.  All 
that  happened  was  that  he  was  very  nearly 
given  in  charge  more  than  once  for  molesting 
peaceable  citizens  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Piccadilly  and  Regent  Street. 

1 20 


I  TAKE  A  PARTNER 

One  night,  on  my  way  home  from  the  Tem- 
ple, I  saw  in  the  bills  of  the  evening  papers 
the  announcement  of  the  arrest  of  a  Labour 
Member.  It  was  Chapman,  sure  enough.  At 
first,  I  feared  that  he  had  got  himself  into 
serious  trouble,  and  was  much  relieved  to  find 
him  in  the  flat  in  a  state  of  blazing  anger.  It 
seemed  that  he  had  found  somebody  whom 
he  thought  was  Lumley,  for  he  only  knew  him 
from  my  descriptions.  The  man  was  in  a 
shop  in  Jermyn  Street,  with  a  car  waiting  out- 
side, and  Chapman  had — politely,  as  he  swore 
-—asked  the  chauffeur  his  master's  name.  The 
chauffeur  had  replied  abusively,  upon  which 
Chapman  had  haled  him  from  the  driver's 
seat  and  shaken  him  till  his  teeth  rattled.  The 
owner  came  out,  and  Chapman  was  arrested 
and  taken  off  to  the  nearest  police-court.  He 
had  been  compelled  to  apologise  and  had  been 
fined  five  pounds  and  costs. 

By  the  mercy  of  Heaven,  the  chauffeur's 
master  was  a  money-lender  of  evil  repute,  so 
the  affair  did  Chapman  no  harm.  But  I  was 
forced  to  talk  to  him  seriously.    I  knew  it  was 

121 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

no  use  explaining  that  for  him  to  spy  on  the 
Power-House  was  like  an  elephant  stalking 
a  gazelle.  The  only  way  was  to  appeal  to  his 
incurable  romanticism. 

"Don't  you  see,"  I  told  him,  "that  you  are 
playing  Lumley's  game?  He  will  trap  you 
sooner  or  later  into  some  escapade  which  will 
land  you  in  jail,  and  where  will  I  be  then? 
That  is  what  he  and  his  friends  are  out  for. 
We  have  got  to  meet  cunning  with  cunning, 
and  lie  low  till  we  get  our  chance." 

He  allowed  himself  to  be  convinced,  and 
handed  over  to  me  the  pistol  he  had  bought, 
which  had  been  the  terror  of  my  life. 

"All  right,"  he  said,  "I'll  keep  quiet.  But 
you  promise  to  let  me  into  the  big  scrap  when 
it  comes  off." 

I  promised.  Chapman's  notion  of  the  grand 
finale  was  a  Homeric  combat  in  which  he 
would  get  his  fill  of  fisticuffs. 

He  was  an  anxiety,  but  all  the  same  he  was 
an  enormous  comfort.  His  imperturbable 
cheerfulness  and  his  racy  talk  were  the  tonics 
I  wanted.    He  had  plenty  of  wisdom,  too.  My 

122 


I  TAKE  A  PARTNER 

nerves  were  getting  bad  those  days,  and, 
whereas  I  had  rarely  touched  the  things  be- 
fore, I  now  found  myself  smoking  cigarettes 
from  morning  till  night.  I  am  pretty  abste- 
mious, as  you  know,  but  I  discovered,  to  my 
horror,  that  I  was  drinking  far  too  many  whis- 
keys-and-sodas.  Chapman  knocked  me  off  all 
that  and  got  me  back  to  a  pipe  and  a  modest 
nightcap. 

He  did  more,  for  he  undertook  to  put  me 
in  training.  His  notion  was  that  we  should 
win  in  the  end  by  superior  muscles.  He  was 
a  square,  thick-set  fellow,  who  had  been  a 
good  middle-weight  boxer.  I  could  box  a  bit 
myself,  but  I  improved  mightily  under  his 
tuition.  We  got  some  gloves,  and  used  to 
hammer  each  other  for  half  an  hour  every 
morning.  Then  might  have  been  seen  the 
shameful  spectacle  of  a  rising  barrister  with 
a  swollen  lip  and  a  black  eye  arguing  in  court, 
and  proceeding  of  an  evening  to  his  country's 
legislature,  where  he  was  confronted  from  the 
opposite  benches  by  the  sight  of  a  Leader  of 
the  People  in  the  same  vulgar  condition. 

123 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

In  those  days  I  wanted  all  the  relief  I  could 
get,  for  it  was  a  beastly  time.  I  knew  I  was 
in  grave  danger,  so  I  made  my  will  and  went 
through  the  other  doleful  performances  con- 
sequent on  the  expectation  of  a  speedy  decease. 
You  see,  I  had  nothing  to  grip  on,  no  clear 
job  to  tackle,  only  to  wait  on  the  off-chance, 
with  an  atmosphere  of  suspicion  thickening 
around  me.  The  spying  went  on — there  was 
no  mistake  about  that — but  I  soon  ceased  to 
mind  it,  though  I  did  my  best  to  give  my 
watchers  little  satisfaction.  There  was  a  hint 
of  bullying  about  the  spying.  It  is  discon- 
certing at  night  to  have  a  man  bump  against 
you  and  look  you  greedily  in  the  face. 

I  did  not  go  again  to  Scotland  Yard,  but 
one  night  I  ran  across  Macgillivray  in  the 
club. 

He  had  something  of  profound  interest  to 
tell  me.  I  had  asked  about  the  phrase,  the 
"Power-House."  Well,  he  had  come  across 
it  in  the  letter  of  a  German  friend,  a  private 
letter,  in  which  the  writer  gave  the  results  of 

124 


I  TAKE  A  PARTNER 

his  inquiries  into  a  curious  affair  which  a  year 
before  had  excited  Europe. 

I  have  forgotten  the  details,  but  it  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  Slav  States  of  Austria 
and  an  Italian  Students'  Union,  and  it  threat- 
ened at  one  time  to  be  dangerous.  Macgilli- 
vray's  correspondent  said  that  in  some  docu- 
ments which  were  seized  he  found  constant 
allusion  to  a  thing  called  the  Krafthaus,  evi- 
dently the  headquarters-staff  of  the  plot.  And 
this  same  word,  Krafthaus,  had  appeared  else- 
where— in  a  sonnet  of  a  poet-anarchist  who 
shot  himself  in  the  slums  of  Antwerp,  in  the 
last  ravings  of  more  than  one  criminal,  in  the 

extraordinary  testament  of  Professor  M , 

of  Jena,  who,  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven,  took 
his  life  after  writing  a  strange,  mystical  mes- 
sage to  his  fellow  citizens. 

Macgillivray's  correspondent  concluded  by 
saying  that,  in  his  opinion,  if  this  Krafthaus 
could  be  found,  the  key  would  be  discovered 
to  the  most  dangerous  secret  organisation  in 
the  world.    He  added  that  he  had  some  rea- 

125 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

son  to  believe  that  the  motive  power  of  the 
concern  was  English. 

"Macgillivray,"  I  said,  "you  have  known 
me  for  some  time,  and  I  fancy  you  think  me 
a  sober  and  discreet  person.  Well,  I  believe 
I  am  on  the  edge  of  discovering  the  secret  of 
your  Krafthaus.  I  want  you  to  promise  me 
that  if  in  the  next  week  I  send  you  an  urgent 
message  you  will  act  on  it,  however  fantastic 
it  seems.  I  can't  tell  you  more.  I  ask  you 
to  take  me  on  trust,  and  believe  that  for  any- 
thing I  do  I  have  tremendous  reasons." 

He  knit  his  shaggy  grey  eyebrows  and 
looked  curiously  at  me.  "Yes,  I'll  go  bail  for 
your  sanity.  It's  a  good  deal  to  promise,  but 
if  you  make  an  appeal  to  me  I  will  see  that 
it  is  met." 

Next  day  I  had  news  from  Felix.  Tuke 
and  the  man  called  Saronov  had  been  identi- 
fied. If  you  are  making  inquiries  about  any- 
body it  is  fairly  easy  to  find  those  who  are 
seeking  for  the  same  person,  and  the  Russian 
police,  in  tracking  Tommy  and  Pitt-Heron, 
had  easily  come  on  the  two  gentlemen  who 

126 


I  TAKE  A  PARTNER 

were  following  the  same  trail.  The  two  had 
gone  by  Samarkand,  evidently  intending  to 
strike  into  the  hills  by  a  shorter  route  than 
the  main  road  from  Bokhara.  The  frontier 
posts  had  been  warned,  and  the  stalkers  had 
become  the  stalked. 

That  was  one  solid  achievement,  at  any  rate. 
I  had  saved  Pitt-Heron  from  the  worst  dan- 
ger, for  first  I  had  sent  him  Tommy,  and  now 
I  had  put  the  police  on  guard  against  his 
enemies.  I  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  that 
enemies  they  were.  Charles  knew  too  much, 
and  Tuke  was  the  man  appointed  to  reason 
with  him,  to  bring  him  back,  if  possible;  or, 
if  not As  Chapman  had  said,  the  ex- 
Union  leader  was  not  the  man  to  stick  at 
trifles. 

It  was  a  broiling  June,  the  London  season 
was  at  its  height,  and  I  had  never  been  so 
busy  in  the  Courts  before.  But  that  crowded 
and  garish  world  was  little  more  than  a  dream 
to  me.  I  went  through  my  daily  tasks,  dined 
out,  went  to  the  play,  had  consultations,  talked 
to  my  fellows,  but  all  the  while  I  had  the 

127 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

feeling  that  I  was  watching  somebody  else 
perform  the  same  functions.  I  believe  I  did 
my  work  well,  and  I  know  I  was  twice  com- 
plimented by  the  Court  of  Appeal. 

But  my  real  interests  were  far  away.  Al- 
ways I  saw  two  men  in  the  hot  glens  of  the 
Oxus,  with  the  fine  dust  of  the  loess  rising 
in  yellow  clouds  behind  them.  One  of  these 
men  had  a  drawn  and  anxious  face,  and  both 
rode  hard.  They  passed  by  the  closes  of  apri- 
cot and  cherry  and  the  green,  watered  gardens, 
and  soon  the  Oxus  ceased  to  flow  wide  among 
rushes  and  water-lilies  and  became  a  turbid 
hill-stream.  By-and-by  the  roadside  changed, 
and  the  horses  of  the  travellers  trod  on  moun- 
tain turf,  crushing  the  irises  and  marigolds 
and  thyme.  I  could  feel  the  free  air  blowing 
from  the  roof  of  the  world,  and  see  far  ahead 
the  snowy  saddle  of  the  pass  which  led  to 
India. 

Far  behind  the  riders  I  saw  two  others,  and 
they  chose  a  different  way,  now  over  water- 
less plateaux,  now  in  rugged  nullahs.  They 
rode  the  faster  and  their  route  was  the  shorter. 

128 


I  TAKE  A  PARTNER 

Sooner  or  later  they  must  catch  up  the  first 
riders,  and  I  knew,  though  how  I  could  not 
tell,  that  death  would  attend  the  meeting. 

I,  and  only  I,  sitting  in  London,  four  thou- 
sand miles  away,  could  prevent  disaster.  The 
dream  haunted  me  at  night,  and  often,  walk- 
ing in  the  Strand  or  sitting  at  a  dinner-table, 
I  have  found  my  eyes  fixed  clearly  on  the  shin- 
ing upland  with  the  thin  white  mountains  at 
the  back  of  it,  and  the  four  dots,  which  were 
men,  hurrying  fast  on  their  business. 

One  night  I  met  Lumley.  It  was  at  a  big 
political  dinner  given  by  the  chief  of  my  party 
in  the  House  of  Lords — fifty  or  sixty  guests, 
and  a  blaze  of  stars  and  decorations.  I  sat 
near  the  bottom  of  the  table,  and  he  was  near 
the  top,  sitting  between  a  famous  General  and 
an  ex- Viceroy  of  India.  I  asked  my  right- 
hand  neighbour  who  he  was,  but  he  could  not 
tell  me.  The  same  question  to  my  left-hand 
neighbour  brought  an  answer: 

"It  is  old  Lumley.  Have  you  never  met 
him?  He  doesn't  go  out  much,  but  he  gives 
a  man's  dinner  now  and  then  which  are  the 
129 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

best  in  London.  No.  He's  not  a  politician, 
though  he  favours  our  side,  and  I  expect  has 
given  a  lot  to  our  funds.  I  can't  think  why 
they  don't  make  him  a  Peer.  He's  enormously 
rich  and  very  generous,  and  the  most  learned 
old  fellow  in  Britain.  My  Chief" — my  neigh- 
bour was  an  Under-Secretary — "knows  him, 
and  told  me  once  that  if  you  wanted  any  out- 
of-the-way  bit  of  knowledge  you  could  get  it 
by  asking  Lumley.  I  expect  he  pulls  the 
strings  more  than  anybody  living.  But  he 
scarcely  ever  goes  out,  and  it's  a  feather  in 
our  host's  cap  to  have  got  him  to-night.  You 
never  see  his  name  in  the  papers,  either.  He 
probably  pays  the  Press  to  keep  him  out,  like 
some  of  those  millionaire  fellows  in  Amer- 
ica." 

I  watched  him  through  dinner.  He  was  the 
centre  of  the  talk  at  his  end  of  the  table.  I 
could  see  the  blue  ribbon  bulging  out  on  Lord 
Morecambe's  breast  as  he  leaned  forward  to 
question  him.  He  was  wearing  some  foreign 
orders,  including  the  Legion  of  Honour,  and 
I  could  hear  in  the  pause  of  conversation  ech- 

130 


I  TAKE  A  PARTNER 

oes  of  his  soft,  rich  voice.  I  could  see  him 
beaming  through  his  glasses  on  his  neighbours, 
and  now  and  then  he  would  take  them  off  and 
look  mildly  at  a  speaker.  I  wondered  why 
nobody  realised,  as  I  did,  what  was  in  his  light 
wild  eyes. 

The  dinner,  I  believe,  was  excellent  and  the 
company  was  good,  but  down  at  my  end  I 
could  eat  little,  and  I  did  not  want  to  talk. 
Here  in  this  pleasant  room,  with  servants  mov- 
ing softly  about  and  a  mellow  light  on  the 
silver  from  the  shaded  candles,  I  felt  the  man 
was  buttressed  and  defended  beyond  my  reach. 
A  kind  of  despairing  hatred  gripped  me  when 
I  looked  his  way.  For  I  was  always  conscious 
of  that  other  picture — the  Asian  desert,  Pitt- 
Heron's  hunted  face,  and  the  grim  figure  of 
Tuke  on  his  trail.  That,  and  the  great  secret 
wheels  of  what  was  too  inhuman  to  be  called 
crime  moving  throughout  the  globe  under  this 
man's  hand. 

There  was  a  party  afterwards,  but  I  did 
not  stay.     No  more  did  Lumley,  and  for  a 

131 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

second  I  brushed  against  him  in  the  hall  at 
the  foot  of  the  big  staircase. 

He  smiled  on  me  affectionately. 

"Have  you  been  dining  here?  I  did  not  no- 
tice you." 

"You  had  better  things  to  think  of,"  I  said. 
"By  the  way,  you  gave  me  good  advice  some 
weeks  ago.  It  may  interest  you  to  hear  that 
I  have  taken  it." 

"I  am  so  glad,"  he  said  softly.  "You  are 
a  very  discreet  young  man." 

But  his  eyes  told  me  that  he  knew  I  lied. 


132 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH 
STREET 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

I  WAS  working  late  at  the  Temple  next 
day,  and  it  was  nearly  seven  before  I  got 
up  to  go  home.  Macgillivray  had  telephoned 
to  me  in  the  afternoon  saying  he  wanted  to 
see  me,  and  suggesting  dinner  at  the  Club,  and 
I  had  told  him  I  should  come  straight  there 
from  my  Chambers.  But  just  after  six  he  had 
rung  me  up  again  and  proposed  another  meet- 
ing place. 

"I've  got  some  very  important  news  for  you, 
and  want  to  be  quiet.  There's  a  little  place 
where  I  sometimes  dine — Rapaccini's,  in  An- 
tioch  Street.  I'll  meet  you  there  at  half-past 
seven." 

I  agreed,  and  sent  a  message  to  Chapman 
at  the  flat,  telling  him  I  would  be  out  to  din- 
ner. It  was  a  Wednesday  night,  so  the  House 
rose  early.    He  asked  me  where  I  was  dining, 

135 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

and  I  told  him,  but  I  did  not  mention  with 
whom.  His  voice  sounded  very  cross,  for  he 
hated  a  lonely  meal. 

It  was  a  hot,  still  night,  and  I  had  had  a 
heavy  day  in  Court,  so  heavy  that  my  private 
anxieties  had  almost  slipped  from  my  mind. 
I  walked  along  the  Embankment,  and  up  Re- 
gent Street  towards  Oxford  Circus.  Antioch 
Street,  as  I  had  learned  from  the  Directory, 
was  in  the  area  between  Langham  Place  and 
Tottenham  Court  Road.  I  wondered  vaguely 
why  Macgillivray  should  have  chosen  such 
an  out-of-the-way  spot,  but  I  knew  him  for  a 
man  of  many  whims. 

The  street,  when  I  found  it,  turned  out  to 
be  a  respectable  little  place,  boarding-houses 
and  architects'  offices,  with  a  few  antiquity 
shops  and  a  picture-cleaner's.  The  restaurant 
took  some  finding,  for  it  was  one  of  those  dis- 
creet establishments,  common  enough  in 
France,  where  no  edibles  are  displayed  in  the 
British  fashion,  and  muslin  half-curtains  deck 
the  windows.    Only  the  doormat,  lettered  with 

136 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

the  proprietor's  name,  remained  to  guide  the 
hungry. 

I  gave  a  waiter  my  hat  and  stick,  and  was 
ushered  into  a  garish  dining-room,  apparently 
full  of  people.  A  single  violinist  was  discours- 
ing music  from  beside  the  grill.  The  occu- 
pants were  not  quite  the  kind  one  expects  to 
find  in  an  eating-house  in  a  side  street.  The 
men  were  all  in  evening  dress  with  white 
waistcoats,  and  the  women  looked  either  demi- 
mondaines  or  those  who  follow  their  taste  in 
clothes.  Various  eyes  looked  curiously  at  me 
as  I  entered.  I  guessed  that  the  restaurant  had, 
by  one  of  those  odd  freaks  of  Londoners,  be- 
come for  a  moment  the  fashion. 

The  proprietor  met  me  half  way  up  the 
room.  He  might  call  himself  Rapaccini,  but 
he  was  obviously  a  German. 

"Mr.  Geelvrai,"  he  nodded.  "He  has  en- 
gaged a  private  room.    Vill  you  follow,  sir?" 

A  narrow  stairway  broke  into  the  wall  on 
the  left  side  of  the  dining-room.  I  followed 
the  manager  up  it  and  along  a  short  corridor 
to  a  door  which  filled  its  end.     He  ushered 

137 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

me  into  a  brightly  lit  little  room  where  a  table 
was  laid  for  two. 

"Mr.  Geelvrai  comes  often  here,"  said  the 
manager.  "He  vill  be  late — sometimes. 
Everything  is  ready,  sir.  I  hope  you  vill  be 
pleased." 

It  looked  inviting  enough,  but  the  air  smelt 
stuffy.  Then  I  saw  that,  though  the  night 
was  warm,  the  window  was  shut  and  the  cur- 
tains drawn.  I  pulled  back  the  curtains,  and, 
to  my  surprise,  saw  that  the  shutters  were 
closed. 

"You  must  open  these,"  I  said,  "or  we'll 
stifle." 

The  manager  glanced  at  the  window.  "I 
vill  send  a  waiter,"  he  said,  and  departed.  The 
door  seemed  to  shut  with  an  odd  click. 

I  flung  myself  down  in  one  of  the  arm- 
chairs, for  I  was  feeling  pretty  tired.  The 
little  table  beckoned  alluringly,  for  I  was  also 
hungry.  I  remember  there  was  a  mass  of 
pink  roses  on  it.  A  bottle  of  champagne,  with 
the  cork  loose,  stood  in  a  wine-cooler  on  the 
side-board,  and  there  was  an  unopened  bottle 

138 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

beside  it.    It  seemed  to  me  that  Macgillivray, 
when  he  dined  here,  did  himself  rather  well. 

The  promised  waiter  did  not  arrive,  and 
the  stuffiness  was  making  me  very  thirsty.  I 
looked  for  a  bell,  but  could  not  see  one.  My 
watch  told  me  it  was  now  a  quarter  to  eight, 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  Macgillivray.  I 
poured  myself  out  a  glass  of  champagne  from 
the  opened  bottle,  and  was  just  about  to  drink 
it  when  my  eye  caught  something  in  a  corner 
of  the  room. 

It  was  one  of  those  little  mid- Victorian  cor- 
ner tables — I  believe  they  call  them  "what- 
nots"— which  you  will  find  in  any  boarding- 
house,  littered  up  with  photographs  and  coral 
and  "Presents  from  Brighton."  On  this  one 
stood  a  photograph  in  a  shabby  frame,  and  I 
thought  I  recognised  it. 

I  crossed  the  room  and  picked  it  up.  It 
showed  a  man  of  thirty,  with  short  side-whis- 
kers and  ill-fitting  jaw  and  a  drooping  mous- 
tache. The  duplicate  of  it  was  in  Macgilli- 
vray's  cabinet.  It  was  Mr.  Routh,  the  ex- 
Union  leader. 

139 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

There  was  nothing  very  remarkable  about 
that,  after  all,  but  it  gave  me  a  nasty  shock. 
The  room  now  seemed  a  sinister  place,  as  well 
as  intolerably  close.  There  was  still  no  sign 
of  the  waiter  to  open  the  window,  so  I  thought 
I  would  wait  for  Macgillivray  downstairs. 

But  the  door  would  not  open.  The  handle 
would  not  turn.  It  did  not  seem  to  be  locked, 
but  rather  to  have  shut  with  some  kind  of 
patent  spring.  I  noticed  that  the  whole  thing 
was  a  powerful  piece  of  oak,  with  a  heavy 
framework,  very  unlike  the  usual  flimsy  res- 
taurant doors. 

My  first  instinct  was  to  make  a  deuce  of  a 
row  and  attract  the  attention  of  the  diners  be- 
low. I  own  I  was  beginning  to  feel  badly 
frightened.  Clearly,  I  had  got  into  some  sort 
of  trap.  Macgillivray's  invitation  might  have 
been  a  hoax,  for  it  is  not  difficult  to  counter- 
feit a  man's  voice  on  the  telephone.  With  an 
effort  I  forced  myself  into  calmness.  It  was 
preposterous  to  think  that  anything  could  hap- 
pen to  me  in  a  room  not  thirty  feet  from  where 
a  score  or  two  of  ordinary  citizens  were  din- 

140 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

ing.  I  had  only  to  raise  my  voice  to  bring 
inquirers. 

Yes,  but  above  all  things  I  did  not  want  a 
row.  It  would  never  do  for  a  rising  lawyer 
and  a  Member  of  Parliament  to  be  found 
shouting  for  help  in  an  upper  chamber  of  a 
Bloomsbury  restaurant.  The  worst  deduction 
would  be  drawn  from  the  open  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne. Besides,  it  might  be  all  right  after 
all.  The  door  might  have  got  stuck.  Mac- 
gillivray  at  that  very  moment  might  be  on 
his  way  up. 

So  I  sat  down  and  waited.  Then  I  remem- 
bered my  thirst,  and  stretched  out  my  hand 
to  the  glass  of  champagne. 

But  at  that  instant  I  looked  towards  the  win- 
dow, and  set  down  the  wine  untasted. 

It  was  a  very  odd  window.  The  lower  end 
was  about  flush  with  the  floor,  and  the  hinges 
of  the  shutters  seemed  to  be  only  on  one  side. 
As  I  stared,  I  began  to  wonder  whether  it 
was  a  window  at  all. 

Next  moment  my  doubts  were  solved.  The 
141 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

window  swung  open  like  a  door,  and  in  the 
dark  cavity  stood  a  man. 

Strangely  enough,  I  knew  him.  His  figure 
was  not  one  that  is  readily  forgotten. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Docker,"  I  said.  "Will 
you  have  a  glass  of  champagne?" 

A  year  before,  on  the  South  Eastern  Circuit, 
I  had  appeared  for  the  defence  in  a  burglary 
case.  Criminal  law  was  not  my  province,  but 
now  and  then  I  took  a  case  to  keep  my  hand  in, 
for  it  is  the  best  training  in  the  world  for  the 
handling  of  witnesses.  This  case  had  been 
peculiar.  A  certain  Bill  Docker  was  the  ac- 
cused, a  gentleman  who  bore  a  bad  reputa- 
tion in  the  eyes  of  the  police.  The  evidence 
against  him  was  strong,  but  it  was  more  or 
less  tainted,  being  chiefly  that  of  two  former 
accomplices — a  proof  that  there  is  small  truth 
in  the  proverbial  honour  among  thieves.  It 
was  an  ugly  business,  and  my  sympathies  were 
with  the  accused,  for  though  he  may  very 
well  have  been  guilty,  yet  he  had  been  the 
victim  of  a  shabby  trick.  Anyhow,  I  put  my 
back  into  the  case,  and  after  a  hard  struggle 

142 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

got  a  verdict  of  "Not  guilty."  Mr.  Docker 
had  been  kind  enough  to  express  his  apprecia- 
tion of  my  efforts,  and  to  ask,  in  a  hoarse  whis- 
per, how  I  had  "squared  the  old  bird,"  mean- 
ing the  Judge.  He  did  not  understand  the 
subtleties  of  the  English  law  of  evidence. 

He  shambled  into  the  room,  a  huge,  hulk- 
ing figure  of  a  man,  with  the  thickness  of 
chest  which,  under  happier  circumstances, 
might  have  made  him  a  terror  in  the  prize- 
ring.  His  features  wore  a  heavy  scowl,  which 
slowly  cleared  to  a  flicker  of  recognition. 

"By  God,  it's  the  lawyer-chap,"  he  mut- 
tered. 

I  pointed  to  the  glass  of  champagne. 

"I  don't  mind  if  I  do,"  he  said.  "  'Ere's 
health!"  He  swallowed  the  wine  at  a  gulp, 
and  wiped  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve.  "  'Ave  a 
drop  yourself,  guvnor,"  he  added.  "A  glass 
of  bubbly  will  cheer  you  up." 

"Well,  Mr.  Docker,"  I  said,  "I  hope  I  see 
you  fit."  I  was  getting  wonderfully  collected 
now  that  the  suspense  was  over. 

H3 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

"Pretty  fair,  sir.  Pretty  fair.  Able  to  do 
my  day's  work  like  an  honest  man." 

"And  what  brings  you  here?" 

"A  little  job  I'm  on.  Some  friends  of  mine 
wants  you  out  of  the  road  for  a  bit,  and  they've 
sent  me  to  fetch  you.  It's  a  bit  of  luck  for 
you  that  you've  struck  a  pal.  We  needn't 
'ave  no  unpleasantness,  seein'  we're  both  what 
you  might  call  men  of  the  world." 

"I  appreciate  the  compliment,"  I  said. 
"But  where  do  you  propose  to  take  me?" 

"Dunno.  It's  some  lay  near  the  Docks.  I've 
got  a  motor-car  waitin'  at  the  back  of  the 
'ouse." 

"But  supposing  I  don't  want  to  go?" 

"My  orders  hadmit  no  hexcuse,"  he  said 
solemnly.  "You're  a  sensible  chap,  and  can 
see  that  in  a  scrap  I  could  down  you  easy." 

"Very  likely,"  I  said.  "But,  man,  you  must 
be  mad  to  talk  like  that.  Downstairs  there 
is  a  dining-room  fall  of  people.  I  have  only 
to  lift  my  voice  to  bring  the  police." 

"You're  a  kid,"  he  said  scornfully.  "Them 
geesers  downstairs  are  all  in  the  job.    That 

144 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

was  a  flat-catching  rig  to  get  you  up  here  so 
as  you  wouldn't  suspect  nothing.  If  you  was 
to  go  down  now — which  you  ain't  going  to  be 
allowed  to  do — you  wouldn't  find  a  blamed 
soul  in  the  place.  I  must  say  you're  a  bit 
softer  than  I  'oped  after  the  'andsome  way 
you  talked  over  the  old  juggins  with  the  wig 
at  Maidstone." 

Mr.  Docker  took  the  bottle  from  the  wine- 
cooler  and  filled  himself  another  glass. 

It  sounded  horribly  convincing.  If  I  was 
to  be  kidnapped  and  smuggled  away  Lumley 
would  have  scored  half  a  success.  Not  the 
whole,  for,  as  I  swiftly  reflected,  I  had  put 
Felix  on  the  track  of  Tuke,  and  there  was 
every  chance  that  Tommy  and  Pitt-Heron 
would  be  saved.  But  for  myself  it  looked 
pretty  black.  The  more  my  scheme  succeeded 
the  more  likely  the  Power-House  would  be  to 
wreak  its  vengeance  on  me  once  I  was  spirited 
from  the  open-air  world  into  its  dark  laby- 
rinths. 

I  made  a  great  effort  to  keep  my  voice  even 
and  calm. 

145 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

"Mr.  Docker,"  I  said.  "I  once  did  you  a 
good  turn.  But  for  me  you  might  be  doing 
time  now  instead  of  drinking  champagne  like 
a  gentleman.  Your  pals  played  you  a  pretty 
low  trick,  and  that  was  why  I  stuck  out  for 
you.  I  didn't  think  you  were  the  kind  of  man 
to  forget  a  friend." 

"No  more  I  am,"  said  he.  "The  man  who 
says  Bill  Docker  would  go  back  on  a  pal  is  a 
liar." 

"Well,  here's  your  chance  to  pay  your  debts. 
The  men  who  employ  you  are  my  deadly  en- 
emies, and  want  to  do  me  in.  I'm  not  a  match 
for  you.  You're  a  stronger  fellow  and  can 
drag  me  off  and  hand  me  over  to  them.  But 
if  you  do  I'm  done  with.  Make  no  mistake 
about  that.  I  put  it  to  you  as  a  decent  fellow. 
Are  you  going  to  go  back  on  the  man  who 
has  been  a  good  friend  to  you?" 

He  shifted  from  one  foot  to  another  with 
his  eyes  on  the  ceiling.  He  was  obviously  in 
difficulties.  Then  he  tried  another  glass  of 
champagne. 

"I  dursn't,  guv'nor.  I  dursn't  let  you  go. 
146 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

Them  I  work  for  would  cut  my  throat  as  soon 
as  look  at  me.  Besides,  it  ain't  no  good.  If 
I  was  to  go  off  and  leave  you  there'd  be  plenty 
more  in  this  'ouse  as  would  do  the  job. 
You're  up  against  it,  guv'nor.  But  take  a 
sensible  view  and  come  with  me.  They  don't 
mean  you  no  real  'arm.  I'll  take  my  Bible 
oath  on  it.  Only  to  keep  you  quiet  for  a  bit, 
for  you've  run  across  one  of  their  games. 
They  won't  do  you  no  'urt  if  you  speak  'em 
fair.    Be  a  sport  and  take  it  smiling-like " 

"You're  afraid  of  them,"  I  said. 

"Yuss.  I'm  afraid.  Black  afraid.  So 
would  you  be  if  you  knew  the  gents.  I'd 
rather  take  on  the  whole  Rat  Lane  crowd — 
you  know  them  as  I  mean — on  a  Saturday 
night,  when  they're  out  for  business,  than  go 
back  to  my  gents  and  say  as  'ow  I  had  shirked 
the  job." 

He  shivered.  "Good  Lord,  they'd  freeze 
the  'eart  out  of  a  bull-pup." 

"You're  afraid,"  I  said  slowly.  "So  you're 
going  to  give  me  up  to  the  men  you're  afraid 
of  to  do  as  they  like  with  me.     I  never  ex- 

147 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

pected  it  of  you,  Bill.  I  thought  you  were  the 
kind  of  lad  who  would  send  any  gang  to  the 
devil  before  you'd  go  back  on  a  pal." 

"Don't  say  that,"  he  said  almost  plaintively. 
"You  don't  'alf  know  the  'ole  I'm  in."  His 
eye  seemed  to  be  wandering,  and  he  yawned 
deeply. 

Just  then  a  great  noise  began  below.  I 
heard  a  voice  speaking,  a  loud  peremptory 
voice.  Then  my  name  was  shouted:  "Leithen! 
Leithen!  Are  you  there?" 

There  could  be  no  mistaking  that  broad 
Yorkshire  tongue.  By  some  miracle  Chap- 
man had  followed  me  and  was  raising  Cain 
downstairs. 

My  heart  leaped  with  the  sudden  revulsion. 
"I'm  here,"  I  yelled.  "Upstairs.  Come  up 
and  let  me  out!" 

Then  I  turned  with  a  smile  of  triumph  to 
Bill. 

"My  friends  have  come,"  I  said.  "You're 
too  late  for  the  job.  Get  back  and  tell  your 
masters  that." 

He  was  swaying  on  his  feet,  and  he  sud- 
148 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

denly  lurched  towards  me.  "You  come  along. 
By  God,  you  think  you've  done  me.  I'll  let 
you  see." 

His  voice  was  growing  thick  and  he 
stopped  short.  "What  the  'ell's  wrong  with 
me?"  he  gasped.  "I'm  goin'  all  queer. 
I  .  .  ." 

He  was  like  a  man  far  gone  in  liquor,  but 
three  glasses  of  champagne  would  never  have 
touched  a  head  like  Bill's.  I  saw  what  was 
up  with  him.  He  was  not  drunk,  but 
drugged. 

"They've  doped  the  wine,"  I  cried.  "They 
put  it  there  for  me  to  drink  it  and  go  to 
sleep." 

There  is  always  something  which  is  the 
last  straw  to  any  man.  You  may  insult  and 
outrage  him  and  he  will  bear  it  patiently,  but 
touch  the  quick  in  his  temper  and  he  will 
turn.  Apparently  for  Bill  drugging  was  the 
unforgivable  sin.  His  eye  lost  for  a  moment 
its  confusion.  He  squared  his  shoulders  and 
roared  like  a  bull. 

149 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

"Doped,  by. God,"  he  cried.  "Who  done 
it?" 

"The  men  who  shut  me  in  this  room. 
Burst  that  door  and  you  will  find  them." 

He  turned  a  blazing  face  on  the  locked  door 
and  hurled  his  huge  weight  on  it.  It  cracked 
and  bent  but  the  lock  and  hinges  held.  I 
could  see  that  sleep  was  overwhelming  him 
and  that  his  limbs  were  stiffening,  but  his 
anger  was  still  strong  enough  for  another 
effort.  Again  he  drew  himself  together  like 
a  big  cat  and  flung  himself  on  the  woodwork. 
The  hinges  tore  from  the  jambs  and  the  whole 
outfit  fell  forward  into  the  passage  in  a  cloud 
of  splinters  and  dust  and  broken  plaster. 

It  was  Mr.  Docker's  final  effort.  He  lay 
on  the  top  of  the  wreckage  he  had  made,  like 
Samson  among  the  ruins  of  Gaza,  a  senseless 
and  slumbering  hulk. 

I  picked  up  the  unopened  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne— it  was  the  only  weapon  available — 
and  stepped  over  his  body.  I  was  beginning 
to  enjoy  myself  amazingly. 

As  I  expected,  there  was  a  man  in  the  cor- 
150 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

ridor,  a  little  fellow  in  waiter's  clothes,  with  a 
tweed  jacket  instead  of  a  dress  coat.  If  he 
had  a  pistol  I  knew  I  was  done,  but  I  gambled 
upon  the  disinclination  of  the  management  for 
the  sound  of  shooting. 

He  had  a  knife,  but  he  never  had  a  chance 
to  use  it.  My  champagne  bottle  descended  on 
his  head  and  he  dropped  like  a  log. 

There  were  men  coming  upstairs — not 
Chapman,  for  I  still  heard  his  hoarse  shouts 
in  the  dining-room.  If  they  once  got  up  they 
could  force  me  back  through  that  hideous 
room  by  the  door  through  which  Docker  had 
come,  and  in  five  minutes  I  should  be  in  their 
motor-car. 

There  was  only  one  thing  to  do.  I  jumped 
from  the  stair-head  right  down  among  them. 
I  think  there  were  three,  and  my  descent 
toppled  them  over.  We  rolled  in  a  wild, 
whirling  mass  and  cascaded  into  the  dining- 
room,  where  my  head  bumped  violently  on 
the  parquet. 

I  expected  a  bit  of  a  grapple,  but  none 
came.     My  wits  were  pretty  woolly,  but  I 

I5i 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

managed  to  scramble  to  my  feet.  The  heels 
of  my  enemies  were  disappearing  up  the 
staircase.  Chapman  was  pawing  my  ribs  to 
discover  if  there  were  any  bones  broken. 
There  was  not  another  soul  in  the  room  ex- 
cept two  policemen  who  were  pushing  their 
way  in  from  the  street. 

Chapman  was  flushed  and  breathing  heav- 
ily: his  coat  had  a  big  split  down  the  seams 
at  the  shoulder,  but  his  face  was  happy  as  a 
child's. 

I  caught  his  arm  and  spoke  in  his  ear. 
"We've  got  to  get  out  of  this  at  once.  How 
can  we  square  these  policemen?  There  must 
be  no  inquiry  and  nothing  in  the  papers.  Do 
you  hear?" 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Chapman.  "These 
bobbies  are  friends  of  mine,  two  good  lads 
from  Wensleydale.  On  my  road  here  I  told 
them  to  give  me  a  bit  of  law  and  follow  me, 
for  I  thought  they  might  be  wanted.  They 
didn't  come  too  soon  to  spoil  sport,  for  I've 
been  knocking  furriners  about  for  ten  min- 

152 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

utes.  You  seem  to  have  been  putting  up  a 
tidy  scrap  yourself." 

"Let's  get  home  first,"  I  said,  for  I  was  be- 
ginning to  think  of  the  bigger  thing. 

I  wrote  a  chit  for  Macgillivray  which  I 
asked  one  of  the  constables  to  take  to  Scot- 
land Yard.  It  was  to  beg  that  nothing  should 
be  done  yet  in  the  business  of  the  restaurant, 
and  above  all  that  nothing  should  get  into  the 
papers.  Then  I  asked  the  other  to  see  us 
home.  It  was  a  queer  request  for  two  able- 
bodied  men  to  make  on  a  summer  evening  in 
the  busiest  part  of  London,  but  I  was  taking 
no  chances.  The  Power-House  had  declared 
war  on  me,  and  I  knew  it  would  be  war  with- 
out quarter. 

I  was  in  a  fever  to  get  out  of  that  place. 
My  momentary  lust  of  battle  had  gone,  and 
every  stone  of  that  building  seemed  to  me  a 
threat.  Chapman  would  have  liked  to  spend 
a  happy  hour  rummaging  through  the  house, 
but  the  gravity  of  my  face  persuaded  him. 
The  truth  is  I  was  bewildered.  I  could  not 
understand  the  reason  of  this  sudden  attack. 

153 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

Lumley's  spies  must  long  ago  have  told  him 
enough  to  connect  me  with  the  Bokhara  busi- 
ness. My  visits  to  the  Embassy  alone  were 
sufficient  proof.  But  now  he  must  have  found 
out  something  new,  something  which  startled 
him,  or  else  there  had  been  wild  doings  in 
Turkestan. 

I  won't  forget  that  walk  home  in  a  hurry. 
It  was  a  fine  July  twilight.  The  streets  were 
full  of  the  usual  crowd,  shop-girls  in  thin 
frocks,  promenading  clerks,  and  all  the  flot- 
sam of  a  London  summer.  You  would  have 
said  it  was  the  safest  place  on  earth.  But  I 
was  glad  we  had  the  policeman  with  us,  who 
at  the  end  of  one  beat  passed  us  on  to  his  col- 
league, and  I  was  glad  of  Chapman.  For  I 
am  morally  certain  I  would  never  have  got 
home  alone. 

The  queer  thing  is  that  there  was  no  sign 
of  trouble  till  we  got  into  Oxford  Street 
Then  I  became  aware  that  there  were  people 
on  those  pavements  who  knew  all  about  me. 
I  first  observed  it  at  the  mouth  of  one  of  those 
little  dark  side-alleys  which  run  up  into  mews 

154 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

and  small  dingy  courts.  I  found  myself  be- 
ing skilfully  edged  away  from  Chapman  into 
the  shadow,  but  I  noticed  it  in  time  and  butted 
my  way  back  to  the  pavement.  I  couldn't 
make  out  who  the  people  were  who  hustled 
me.  They  seemed  nondescripts  of  all  sorts, 
but  I  fancied  there  were  women  among  them. 

This  happened  twice,  and  I  got  wary,  but 
I  was  nearly  caught  before  we  reached  Ox- 
ford Circus.  There  was  a  front  of  a  big  shop 
rebuilding,  and  the  usual  wooden  barricade 
with  a  gate.  Just  as  we  passed  it  there  was  a 
special  throng  on  the  pavement  and  I,  being 
next  the  wall,  got  pushed  against  the  gate. 
Suddenly  it  gave  and  I  was  pressed  inward. 
I  was  right  inside  before  I  realised  my  dan- 
ger, and  the  gate  was  closing.  There  must 
have  been  people  there,  but  I  could  see  noth- 
ing in  the  gloom. 

It  was  no  time  for  false  pride.  I  yelled  to 
Chapman  and  the  next  second  his  burly 
shoulder  was  in  the  gap.  The  hustlers  van- 
ished and  I  seemed  to  hear  a  polite  voice  beg- 
ging my  pardon. 

*55 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

After  that  Chapman  and  I  linked  arms  and 
struck  across  Mayfair.  But  I  did  not  feel 
safe  till  I  was  in  the  flat  with  the  door  bolted. 

We  had  a  long  drink  and  I  stretched  my- 
self in  an  armchair,  for  I  was  as  tired  as  if  I 
had  come  out  of  a  big  game  of  Rugby  foot- 
ball. 

"I  owe  you  a  good  deal,  old  man,"  I  said. 
"I  think  I'll  join  the  Labour  Party.  You  can 
tell  your  fellows  to  send  me  their  whips. 
What  possessed  you  to  come  to  look  for  me?" 

The  explanation  was  simple.  I  had  men- 
tioned the  restaurant  in  my  telephone  mes- 
sage, and  the  name  had  awakened  a  recollec- 
tion in  Chapman's  mind.  He  could  not  fix 
it  at  first,  but  by  and  by  he  remembered  that 
the  place  had  cropped  up  in  the  Routh  case. 
Routh's  London  headquarters  had  been  at  the 
restaurant  in  Antioch  Street.  As  soon  as 
he  remembered  this  he  got  into  a  taxi  and 
descended  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  where 
by  sheer  luck  he  fell  in  with  his  Wensleydale 
friends. 

He  said  he  had  marched  into  the  restaurant 

i56 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

and  found  it  empty,  but  for  an  ill-favoured 
manager,  who  denied  all  knowledge  of  me. 
Then  fortunately  he  chose  to  make  certain  by 
shouting  my  name,  and  heard  my  answer. 
After  that  he  knocked  the  manager  down, 
and  was  presently  assaulted  by  several  men 
whom  he  described  as  "furrin'  muck."  They 
had  knives,  of  which  he  made  very  little,  for 
he  seems  to  have  swung  a  table  as  a  battering 
ram  and  left  sore  limbs  behind  him. 

He  was  on  the  top  of  his  form.  "I  haven't 
enjoyed  anything  so  much  since  I  was  a  lad  at 
school,"  he  informed  me.  "I  was  beginning 
to  think  your  Power-House  was  a  wash-out, 
but  Lord!  it's  been  busy  enough  to-night. 
This  is  what  I  call  life!" 

My  spirits  could  not  keep  pace  with  his. 
The  truth  is  that  I  was  miserably  puzzled — 
not  afraid  so  much  as  mystified.  I  couldn't 
make  out  this  sudden  dead-set  at  me.  Either 
they  knew  more  than  I  bargained  for  or  I 
knew  far  too  little. 

"It's  all  very  well,"  I  said,  "but  I  don't  see 
how  this  is  going  to  end.    We  can't  keep  up 

157 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

the  pace  long.  At  this  rate  it  will  be  only  a 
matter  of  hours  till  they  get  me." 

We  pretty  well  barricaded  ourselves  in  the 
flat,  and,  at  his  earnest  request,  I  restored  to 
Chapman  his  revolver.  Then  I  got  the  clue 
I  had  been  longing  for. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock,  while  we  were 
sitting  smoking,  when  the  telephone  bell  rang. 
It  was  Felix  who  spoke. 

"I  have  news  for  you,"  he  said.  "The  hunt- 
ers have  met  the  hunted  and  one  of  the  hunt- 
ers is  dead.  The  other  is  a  prisoner  in  our 
hands.    He  has  confessed." 

It  had  been  black  murder  in  intent.  The 
frontier  police  had  shadowed  the  two  men 
into  the  cup  of  a  glen  where  they  met  Tommy 
and  Pitt-Heron.  The  four  had  spoken  to- 
gether for  a  little,  and  then  Tuke  had  fired 
deliberately  at  Charles  and  had  grazed  his 
ear.  Whereupon  Tommy  had  charged  him 
and  knocked  the  pistol  from  his  hand.  The 
assailant  had  fled,  but  a  long  shot  from  the 
police  on  the  hillside  had  toppled  him  over. 

158 


RESTAURANT  IN  ANTIOCH  STREET 

Tommy  had  felled  Saronov  with  his  fists,  and 
the  man  had  abjectly  surrendered.  He  had 
confessed,  Felix  said,  but  what  the  confession 
was  he  did  not  know. 


*S9 


CHAPTER  VII 
I  FIND  SANCTUARY, 


' 


CHAPTER  VII 

I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

TV  yf"Y  nervousness  and  indecision  dropped 
■*■▼-■•  from  me  at  the  news.  I  had  won  the 
first  round,  and  I  would  win  the  last,  for  it 
suddenly  became  clear  to  me  that  I  had  now 
evidence  which  would  blast  Lumley.  I  be- 
lieved that  it  would  not  be  hard  to  prove  his 
identitv  with  Pavia  and  his  receipt  of  the 
telegram  from  Saronov;  Tuke  was  his  crea- 
ture, and  Tuke's  murderous  mission  was  his 
doing.  No  doubt  I  knew  little  and  could 
prove  nothing  about  the  big  thing,  the  Power- 
House,  but  conspiracy  to  murder  is  not  the 
lightest  of  criminal  charges.  I  was  beginning 
to  see  my  way  to  checkmating  my  friend,  at 
least  so  far  as  Pitt-Heron  was  concerned. 
Provided — and  it  was  a  pretty  big  proviso — 
that  he  gave  me  the  chance  to  use  my  knowl- 
edge. 

163 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

That  I  foresaw,  was  going  to  be  the  diffi- 
culty. What  I  knew  now  Lumley  had  known 
hours  before.  The  reason  of  the  affair  at 
Antioch  Street  was  now  only  too  clear.  If  he 
believed  that  I  had  damning  evidence  against 
him — and  there  was  no  doubt  he  suspected  it 
— then  he  would  do  his  best  to  stop  my  mouth. 
I  must  get  my  statement  lodged  in  the  proper 
quarter  at  the  earliest  possible  moment. 

The  next  twenty-four  hours,  I  feared,  were 
going  to  be  too  sensational  for  comfort.  And 
yet  I  cannot  say  that  I  was  afraid.  I  was 
too  full  of  pride  to  be  in  a  funk.  I  had  lost 
my  awe  of  Lumley  through  scoring  a  point 
against  him.  Had  I  known  more  I  should 
have  been  less  at  my  ease.  It  was  this  confi- 
dence which  prevented  me  doing  the  obvious 
safe  thing — ringing  up  Macgillivray,  telling 
him  the  gist  of  my  story,  and  getting  him  to 
put  me  under  police  protection.  I  thought 
I  was  clever  enough  to  see  the  thing  through 
myself.  And  it  must  have  been  the  same  over- 
confidence  which  prevented  Lumley  getting 
at  me  that  night.     An  organisation  like  his 

164 


I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

could  easily  have  got  into  the  flat  and  done 
for  us  both.  I  suppose  the  explanation  is  that 
he  did  not  yet  know  how  much  I  knew  and 
was  not  yet  ready  to  take  the  last  steps  in 
silencing  me. 

I  sat  up  till  the  small  hours,  marshalling 
my  evidence  in  a  formal  statement  and  mak- 
ing two  copies  of  it.  One  was  destined  for 
Macgillivray  and  the  other  for  Felix,  for  I 
was  taking  no  risks.  I  went  to  bed  and  slept 
peacefully  and  was  awakened  as  usual  by 
Waters.  My  man  slept  out,  and  used  to  turn 
up  in  the  morning  about  seven.  It  was  all  so 
normal  and  homely  that  I  could  have  believed 
my  adventures  of  the  night  before  a  dream. 
In  the  summer  sunlight  the  ways  of  darkness 
seemed  very  distant.  I  dressed  in  excellent 
spirits  and  made  a  hearty  breakfast. 

Then  I  gave  the  docile  Chapman  his  in- 
structions. He  must  take  the  document  to 
Scotland  Yard,  ask  to  see  Macgillivray,  and 
put  it  into  his  hands.  Then  he  must  ring  me 
up  at  once  at  Down  Street  and  tell  me  that  he 
had  done  this.    I  had  already  telephoned  to 

165 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

my  clerk  that  I  would  not  be  at  the  Temple 
that  day. 

It  seems  a  simple  thing  to  travel  less  than 
a  mile  in  the  most  frequented  part  of  London 
in  broad  daylight,  and  perform  an  easy  act 
like  carrying  a  letter;  but  I  knew  that  Lum- 
ley's  spies  would  be  active,  and  would  con- 
nect Chapman  sufficiently  with  me  to  think 
him  worth  following.  In  that  case  there 
might  be  an  attempt  at  violence.  I  thought 
it  my  duty  to  tell  him  this,  but  he  laughed  me 
to  scorn.  He  proposed  to  walk,  and  he  begged 
to  be  shown  the  man  who  would  meddle  with 
him.  Chapman  after  last  night  was  prepared 
to  take  on  all  comers.  He  put  my  letter  to 
Macgillivray  in  his  inner  pocket,  buttoned  his 
coat,  crushed  down  his  felt  hat  on  his  head, 
and  defiantly  set  forth. 

I  expected  a  message  from  him  in  half  an 
hour,  for  he  was  a  rapid  walker.  But  the  half 
hour  passed,  then  the  three-quarters,  and 
nothing  happened.  At  eleven  I  rang  up 
Scotland  Yard,  but  they  had  no  news  of  him. 

Then  I  became  miserably  anxious,  for  it 
1 66 


I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

was  clear  that  some  disaster  had  overtaken  my 
messenger.  My  first  impulse  was  to  set  out 
myself  to  look  for  him,  but  a  moment's  re- 
flection convinced  me  that  that  would  be  play- 
ing into  the  enemy's  hands.  For  an  hour  I 
wrestled  with  my  impatience,  and  then  a  few 
minutes  after  twelve  I  was  rung  up  by  St. 
Thomas's  Hospital. 

A  young  doctor  spoke,  and  said  that  Mr. 
Chapman  had  asked  him  to  tell  me  what  had 
happened.  He  had  been  run  down  by  a 
motor-car  at  the  corner  of  Whitehall — noth- 
ing serious — only  a  bad  shake  and  some  scalp 
wounds.  In  a  day  or  so  he  would  be  able  to 
leave. 

Then  he  added  what  drove  the  blood  from 
my  heart.  "Mr.  Chapman  personally  wished 
me  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "that  the  letter  has 
gone."  I  stammered  some  reply  asking  his 
meaning.  "He  said  he  thinks,"  I  was  told, 
"that,  while  he  was  being  assisted  to  his  feet, 
his  pocket  was  picked  and  a  letter  taken.  He 
said  you  would  know  what  he  meant." 

I  knew  only  too  well  what  he  meant.  Lum- 
167 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

ley  had  got  my  statement,  and  realised  pre- 
cisely how  much  I  knew  and  what  was  the 
weight  of  evidence  against  him.  Before  he 
had  only  suspected,  now  he  knew.  He  must 
know,  too,  that  there  would  be  a  copy  some- 
where which  I  would  try  to  deliver.  It  was 
going  to  be  harder  than  I  had  fancied  to  get 
my  news  to  the  proper  ears,  and  I  had  to  an- 
ticipate the  extreme  of  violence  on  the  part 
of  my  opponents. 

The  thought  of  the  peril  restored  my  cool- 
ness. I  locked  the  outer  door  of  my  flat,  and 
telephoned  to  the  garage  where  I  kept  my 
car,  bidding  Stagg  call  for  me  at  two  o'clock 
precisely.  Then  I  lit  a  pipe  and  strove  to 
banish  the  whole  business  from  my  thoughts, 
for  fussing  would  do  me  no  good. 

Presently  it  occurred  to  me  to  ring  up  Felix 
and  give  him  some  notion  of  the  position.  But 
I  found  that  my  telephone  was  now  broken 
and  connection  was  impossible.  The  spoken 
as  well  as  the  written  word  was  to  be  denied 
me.  That  had  happened  in  the  last  half  hour 
and  I  didn't  believe  it  was  by  accident.    Also 

168 


I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

my  man  Waters,  whom  I  had  sent  out  on  an 
errand  after  breakfast,  had  never  returned. 
The  state  of  siege  had  begun. 

It  was  a  blazing  hot  midsummer  day.  The 
water-carts  were  sprinkling  Piccadilly,  and 
looking  from  my  window  I  could  see  lei- 
surely and  elegant  gentlemen  taking  their 
morning  stroll.  A  florist's  cart  full  of  roses 
stood  below  me  in  the  street.  The  summer 
smell  of  town — a  mixture  of  tar,  flowers,  dust 
and  patchouli — rose  in  gusts  through  the  hot 
air.  It  was  the  homely  London  I  knew  so 
well,  and  I  was  somehow  an  exile  from  it.  I 
was  being  shepherded  into  a  dismal  isolation, 
which,  unless  I  won  help,  might  mean  death. 
I  was  cool  enough  now,  but  I  will  not  deny 
that  I  was  miserably  anxious.  I  cursed  my 
false  confidence  the  night  before.  By  now  I 
might  have  had  Macgillivray  and  his  men 
by  my  side.  As  it  was  I  wondered  if  I  should 
ever  see  them. 

I  changed  into  a  flannel  suit,  lunched  off 
sandwiches  and  a  whisky  and  soda,  and  at  two 
o'clock  looked  for  Stagg  and  my  car.    He  was 

169 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

five  minutes  late,  a  thing  which  had  never 
happened  before.  But  I  never  welcomed 
anything  so  gladly  as  the  sight  of  that  car. 
I  had  hardly  dared  to  hope  that  it  would 
reach  me. 

My  goal  was  the  Embassy  in  Belgrave 
Square,  but  I  was  convinced  that  if  I  ap- 
proached it  directly  I  should  share  the  fate 
of  Chapman.  Worse,  for  from  me  they 
would  not  merely  snatch  the  letter.  What  I 
had  once  written  I  could  write  again,  and  if 
they  wished  to  ensure  my  silence  it  must  be 
by  more  drastic  methods.  I  proposed  to  baffle 
my  pursuers  by  taking  a  wide  circuit  round 
the  western  suburbs  of  London,  returning  to 
the  Embassy  when  I  thought  the  coast  clear. 

It  was  a  tremendous  relief  to  go  down  the 
stairs  and  emerge  into  the  hot  daylight.  I 
gave  Stagg  his  instructions,  and  lay  back  in 
the  closed  car  with  a  curious  fluttering  sense  of 
anticipation.  I  had  begun  the  last  round  in 
the  wild  game.  There  was  a  man  at  the  cor- 
ner of  Down  Street  who  seemed  to  peer  curi- 

170 


I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

ously  at  the  car.  He  was  doubtless  one  of  my 
watchers. 

We  went  up  Park  Lane  into  the  Edgeware 
Road,  my  instructions  to  Stagg  being  to  make 
a  circuit  by  Harrow  and  Brentford.  Now 
that  I  was  ensconced  in  my  car  I  felt  a  trifle 
safer,  and  my  tense  nerves  relaxed.  I  grew 
drowsy  and  allowed  myself  to  sink  into  a  half 
doze.  The  stolid  back  of  Stagg  filled  my 
gaze,  as  it  had  filled  it  a  fortnight  ago  on 
the  western  road,  and  I  admired  lazily  the 
brick-red  of  his  neck.  He  had  been  in  the 
Guards,  and  a  Boer  bullet  at  Modder  River 
had  left  a  long  scar  at  the  nape  of  his  neck, 
which  gave  to  his  hair  the  appearance  of  be- 
ing badly  cut.  He  had  told  me  the  story  on 
Exmoor. 

Suddenly  I  rubbed  my  eyes.  There  was  no 
scar  there;  the  hair  of  the  chauffeur  grew 
regularly  down  to  his  coat-collar.  The  re- 
semblance had  been  perfect,  the  voice  was 
Stagg's,  but  clearly  it  was  not  Stagg  who  now 
drove  my  car. 

I  pulled  the  blind  down  over  the  front  win- 
171 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

dow  as  if  to  shelter  myself  from  the  sun. 
Looking  out  I  saw  that  we  were  some  distance 
up  the  Edgeware  Road,  nearing  the  point 
where  the  Marylebone  Road  joins  it.  Now 
or  never  was  my  chance,  for  at  the  corner 
there  is  always  a  block  in  the  traffic. 

The  car  slowed  down  in  obedience  to  a 
policeman's  uplifted  hand,  and  very  gently  I 
opened  the  door  on  the  left  side.  Since  the 
car  was  new  it  opened  softly,  and  in  two  sec- 
onds I  had  stepped  out,  shut  it  again,  and 
made  a  dive  between  a  butcher's  cart  and  a 
motor-bus  for  the  side-walk.  I  gave  one 
glance  back  and  saw  the  unconscious  chauf- 
feur still  rigid  at  the  wheel. 

I  dodged  unobtrusively  through  the  crowd 
on  the  pavement,  with  my  hand  on  my  breast- 
pocket to  see  that  my  paper  was  still  there. 
There  was  a  little  picture-shop  near  by  to 
which  I  used  to  go  occasionally,  owned  by  a 
man  who  was  an  adept  at  cleaning  and  restor- 
ing. I  had  sent  him  customers  and  he  was 
likely  to  prove  a  friend.  So  I  dived  into  his 
doorway,  which  made  a  cool  pit  of  shade  after 

172 


I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

the  glaring  street,  and  found  him,  spectacles 
on  nose,  busy  examining  some  dusty  prints. 

He  greeted  me  cordially  and  followed  me 
into  the  back  shop. 

"Mr.  Levison,"  I  said,  "have  you  a  back 
door?" 

He  looked  at  me  in  some  surprise.  "Why, 
yes;  there  is  the  door  into  the  lane  which  runs 
from  Edgeley  Street  into  Connaught  Mews." 

"Will  you  let  me  use  it?  There  is  a  friend 
outside  whom  I  wish  to  avoid.  Such  things 
happen,  you  know." 

He  smiled  comprehendingly.  "Certainly, 
sir.  Come  this  way,"  and  he  led  me  through 
a  dark  passage  hung  with  dingy  Old  Masters 
to  a  little  yard  filled  with  the  debris  of  pic- 
ture frames.  There  he  unlocked  a  door  in  the 
wall  and  I  found  myself  in  a  narrow  alley. 
As  I  emerged  I  heard  the  bell  of  the  shop- 
door  ring.  "If  any  one  inquires,  you  have  not 
seen  me  here,  remember,"  I  said,  and  Mr. 
Levison  nodded.  He  was  an  artist  in  his 
small  way  and  liked  the  scent  of  a  mystery. 

I  ran  down  the  lane  and  by  various  cross 

173 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

streets  made  my  way  into  Bayswater.  I  be- 
lieved that  I  had  thrown  my  trackers  for  the 
moment  of!  the  scent,  but  I  had  got  to  get  to 
the  Embassy,  and  that  neighbourhood  was 
sure  to  be  closely  watched.  I  came  out  on  the 
Bayswater  Road  pretty  far  west,  and  resolved 
to  strike  south-east  across  the  Park.  My  rea- 
son was  that  the  neighbourhood  of  Hyde  Park 
Corner  was  at  that  time  of  day  certain  to  be 
pretty  well  crowded,  and  I  felt  more  security 
in  a  throng  than  in  the  empty  streets  of  Ken- 
sington. Now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  it 
was  a  rash  thing  to  do,  for  since  Lumley 
knew  the  full  extent  of  my  knowledge,  he  was 
likely  to  deal  more  violently  with  me  than 
with  Chapman,  and  the  seclusion  of  the  Park 
offered  him  too  good  a  chance. 

I  crossed  the  riding-track  and  struck  over 
the  open  space  where  the  Sunday  demonstra- 
tions are  held.  There  was  nothing  there  but 
nurses  and  perambulators,  children  at  play, 
and  dogs  being  exercised.  Presently  I 
reached  Grosvenor  Gate,  where  on  the  little 
green  chairs  well-dressed  people  were  taking 

174 


I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

the  air.  I  recognised  several  acquaintances 
and  stopped  for  a  moment  to  talk  to  one  of 
them.  Then  I  emerged  in  Park  Lane  and 
walked  down  it  to  Hamilton  Place. 

So  far  I  thought  I  had  not  been  followed, 
but  now  once  more  I  had  the  indefinable  but 
unerring  sensation  of  being  watched.  I 
caught  a  man  looking  eagerly  at  me  from  the 
other  side  of  the  street,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  he  made  a  sign  to  someone  farther  off. 
There  was  now  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
between  me  and  Belgrave  Square,  but  I  saw 
that  it  would  be  a  hard  course  to  cover. 

Once  in  Piccadilly  there  could  be  no  doubt 
about  my  watchers.  Lumley  was  doing  the 
thing  in  style  this  time.  Last  night  it  had 
only  been  a  trial  trip,  but  now  the  whole  en- 
ergies of  the  Power-House  were  on  the  job. 
The  place  was  filled  with  the  usual  mid-sea- 
son crowd,  and  I  had  to  take  off  my  hat  sev- 
eral times.  Up  in  the  bow-window  of  the 
Bachelors'  Club  a  young  friend  of  mine  was 
writing  a  letter  and  sipping  a  long  drink  with 
an  air  of  profound  boredom.     I  would  have 

*7S 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

given  much  for  his  ennui,  for  my  life  at  the 
moment  was  painfully  exciting.  I  was  alone 
in  that  great  crowd,  isolated  and  proscribed, 
and  there  was  no  help  save  in  my  own  wits. 
If  I  spoke  to  a  policeman  he  would  think  me 
drunk  or  mad,  and  yet  I  was  on  the  edge  of 
being  made  the  victim  of  a  far  subtler  crime 
than  fell  within  the  purview  of  the  Metro- 
politan force. 

Now  I  saw  how  thin  is  the  protection  of 
civilisation.  An  accident  and  a  bogus  ambu- 
lance— a  false  charge  and  a  bogus  arrest — 
there  were  a  dozen  ways  of  spiriting  me  out 
of  this  gay,  bustling  world.  I  foresaw  that,  if 
I  delayed,  my  nerve  would  break,  so  I  boldly 
set  off  across  the  road. 

I  jolly  nearly  shared  the  fate  of  Chapman. 
A  car  which  seemed  about  to  draw  up  at  a 
club  door  suddenly  swerved  across  the  street, 
and  I  had  to  dash  to  an  island  to  escape  it 
It  was  no  occasion  to  hesitate,  so,  dodging  a 
bus  and  missing  a  motor  bicycle  by  a  hair's 
breadth,  I  rushed  across  the  remaining  dis- 

176 


I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

tance  and  reached  the  railings  of  the  Green 
Park. 

Here  there  were  fewer  people,  and  several 
queer  things  began  to  happen.  A  little  group 
of  workmen  with  their  tools  were  standing  by 
the  kerb,  and  they  suddenly  moved  towards 
me.  A  pavement  artist,  who  looked  like  a 
cripple,  scrambled  to  his  feet  and  moved  in 
the  same  direction.  There  was  a  policeman  at 
the  corner,  and  I  saw  a  well-dressed  man  go 
up  to  him,  say  something  and  nod  in  my  direc- 
tion, and  the  policeman  too  began  to  move 
towards  me. 

I  did  not  await  them.  I  took  to  my  heels 
and  ran  for  my  life  down  Grosvenor  Place. 

Long  ago  at  Eton  I  had  won  the  school 
mile,  and  at  Oxford  I  was  a  second  string  for 
the  quarter.  But  never  at  Eton  or  at  Oxford 
did  I  run  as  I  ran  then.  It  was  blisteringly 
hot,  but  I  did  not  feel  it,  for  my  hands  were 
clammy  and  my  heart  felt  like  a  cold  stone. 
I  do  not  know  how  the  pursuit  got  on,  for  I 
did  not  think  of  it.  I  did  not  reflect  what 
kind  of  spectacle  I  must  afford  running  like 

177 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

a  thief  in  a  London  thoroughfare  on  a  June 
afternoon.  I  only  knew  that  my  enemies  were 
around  and  behind  me,  and  that  in  front,  a 
few  hundred  yards  away,  lay  safety. 

But  even  as  I  ran  I  had  the  sense  to  think 
out  my  movements,  and  to  realise  that  the 
front  door  of  the  Embassy  was  impossible. 
For  one  thing  it  would  be  watched,  and  for 
another,  before  the  solemn  footmen  opened 
it,  my  pursuers  would  be  upon  me.  My  only 
hope  was  the  back  door. 

I  twisted  into  the  mews  behind  the  north 
side  of  the  Square,  and  as  I  turned  I  saw  two 
men  run  up  from  the  Square  as  if  to  cut  me 
off.  A  whistle  was  blown  and  more  men  ap- 
peared— one  entering  from  the  far  end  of  the 
mews,  one  darting  from  a  public-house  door, 
and  one  sliding  down  a  ladder  from  a  stable- 
loft.  This  last  was  nearest  me  and  tried  to 
trip  me,  but  I  rejoice  to  say  that  a  left-hander 
on  the  chin  sent  him  sprawling  on  the  cob- 
bles. I  remembered  that  the  Embassy  was 
the  fifth  house  from  the  end,  and  feverishly 
I  tried  to  count  the  houses  by  their  backs.    It 

i78 


I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

is  not  so  easy  as  it  sounds,  for  the  modern 
London  householder  studs  his  back  premises 
with  excrescences  which  seem  to  melt  into  his 
neighbour's.  In  the  end  I  had  to  make  a 
guess  at  the  door,  which  to  my  joy  was  un- 
locked. I  rushed  in  and  banged  it  behind 
me.  I  found  myself  in  a  stone  passage,  with 
on  one  side  a  door  opening  on  a  garage.  There 
was  a  wooden  staircase  leading  to  an  upper 
floor,  and  a  glass  door  in  front  which  opened 
into  a  large  disused  room  full  of  boxes.  Be- 
yond were  two  doors,  one  of  which  was 
locked.  The  other  abutted  on  a  steep  iron 
stairway  which  obviously  led  to  the  lower  re- 
gions of  the  house. 

I  ran  down  the  stair — it  was  no  more  than 
a  ladder — crossed  a  small  courtyard,  traversed 
a  passage,  and  burst  into  the  kitchen,  where 
I  confronted  an  astonished  white-capped  chef 
in  the  act  of  lifting  a  pot  from  the  fire. 

His  face  was  red  and  wrathful,  and  I 
thought  that  he  was  going  to  fling  the  pot  at 
my  head.    I  had  disturbed  him  in  some  deli- 

179 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

cate  operation,  and  his  artist's  pride  was  out- 
raged. 

"Monsieur,"  I  stammered  in  French,  "I 
seek  your  pardon  for  my  intrusion.  There 
were  circumstances  which  compelled  me  to 
enter  this  house  by  the  back  premises.  I  am 
an  acquaintance  of  His  Excellency,  your  pa- 
tron, and  an  old  friend  of  Monsieur  Felix. 
I  beg  you  of  your  kindness  to  direct  me  to 
Monsieur  Felix's  room,  or  to  bid  some  one 
take  me  there." 

My  abject  apologies  mollified  him. 

"It  is  a  grave  offence,  monsieur,"  he  said, 
"an  unparalleled  offence,  to  enter  my  kitchen 
at  this  hour.  I  fear  you  have  irremediably 
spoiled  the  new  casserole  dish  that  I  was  en- 
deavouring to  compose." 

I  was  ready  to  go  on  my  knees  to  the  of- 
fended artist. 

"It  grieves  me  indeed  to  have  interfered 
with  so  rare  an  art,  which  I  have  often  ad- 
mired at  His  Excellency's  table.  But  there 
is  danger  behind  me  and  an  urgent  mission  in 
front.     Monsieur  will  forgive  me?     Neces- 

180 


I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

sity  will,  sometimes,  overrule  the  finest  sen- 
sibility." 

He  bowed  to  me  and  I  bowed  to  him,  and 
my  pardon  was  assured. 

Suddenly  a  door  opened,  another  than  that 
by  which  I  had  entered,  and  a  man  appeared 
whom  I  took  to  be  a  footman.  He  was  strug- 
gling into  his  livery  coat,  but  at  the  sight  of 
me  he  dropped  it.  I  thought  I  recognised 
the  face  as  that  of  the  man  who  had  emerged 
from  the  public-house  and  tried  to  cut  me  off. 

"  'Ere,  Mister  Alphonse,"  he  cried,  "  'elp 
me  to  collar  this  man.  The  police  are  after 
'im." 

"You  forget,  my  friend,"  I  said,  "that  an 
Embassy  is  privileged  ground  which  the  po- 
lice can't  enter.  I  desire  to  be  taken  before 
His  Excellency." 

"So  that's  yer  game,"  he  shouted.  "But 
two  can  play  at  that.  'Ere,  give  me  an  'and, 
moosoo,  and  we'll  'ave  him  in  the  street  in  a 
jiffy.  There's  two  'undred  of  the  best  in  our 
pockets  if  we  'ands  'im  over  to  them  as  wants 


'im." 


181 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

The  cook  looked  puzzled  and  a  little 
frightened. 

"Will  you  allow  them  to  outrage  your 
kitchen — an  Embassy  kitchen  too — without 
your  consent?"  I  said. 

"What  have  you  done?"  he  asked  in  French. 

"Only  what  your  patron  will  approve,"  I 
replied  in  the  same  tongue.  "Messieurs  les 
assassins  have  a  grudge  against  me." 

He  still  hesitated,  while  the  young  footman 
advanced  on  me.  He  was  fingering  some- 
thing in  his  trousers  pocket  which  I  did  not 
like. 

Now  was  the  time  when,  as  they  say  in 
America,  I  should  have  got  busy  with  my 
gun;  but  alas!  I  had  no  gun.  I  feared  sup- 
ports for  the  enemy,  for  the  footman  at  the 
first  sight  of  me  had  run  back  the  way  he  had 
come,  and  I  had  heard  a  low  whistle. 

What  might  have  happened  I  do  not  know, 
had  not  the  god  appeared  from  the  machine 
in  the  person  of  Hewins,  the  butler. 

"Hewins,"  I  said,  "you  know  me.  I  have 
often  dined  here,  and  you  know  that  I  am  a 

182 


I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

friend  of  Monsieur  Felix.  I  am  on  my  way 
to  see  him  on  an  urgent  matter,  and  for  vari- 
ous reasons  I  had  to  enter  by  Monsieur  Al- 
phonse's  kitchen.  Will  you  take  me  at  once 
to  Monsieur  Felix?" 

Hewins  bowed,  and  on  his  imperturbable 
face  there  appeared  no  sign  of  surprise. 
"This  way,  sir,"  was  all  he  said. 

As  I  followed  him  I  saw  the  footman 
plucking  nervously  at  the  something  in  his 
trousers-pocket.  Lumley's  agents  apparently 
had  not  always  the  courage  to  follow  his  in- 
structions to  the  letter,  for  I  made  no  doubt 
that  the  order  had  been  to  take  me  alive  or 
dead. 

I  found  Felix  alone,  and  flung  myself  into 
an  arm-chair.  "My  dear  chap,"  I  said,  "take 
my  advice  and  advise  His  Excellency  to  sack 
the  red-haired  footman." 

From  that  moment  I  date  that  sense  of 
mastery  over  a  situation  which  drives  out 
fear.  I  had  been  living  for  weeks  under  a 
dark  pall  and  suddenly  the  skies  had  light- 
ened.      I     had     found    sanctuary.      What- 

183 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

ever  happened  to  me  now  the  worst  was  past, 
for  I  had  done  my  job. 

Felix  was  looking  at  me  curiously,  for, 
jaded,  scarlet,  dishevelled,  I  was  an  odd  figure 
for  a  London  afternoon.  "Things  seem  to 
have  been  marching  fast  with  you,"  he  said. 

"They  have,  but  I  think  the  march  is  over. 
I  want  to  ask  several  favours.  First,  here  is  a 
document  which  sets  out  certain  facts.  I  shall 
ring  up  Macgillivray  at  Scotland  Yard  and 
ask  him  to  come  here  at  9.30  this  evening. 
When  he  comes  I  want  you  to  give  him  this 
and  ask  him  to  read  it  at  once.  He  will  know 
how  to  act  on  it." 

Felix  nodded.    "And  the  next?" 

"Give  me  a  telegraph  form.  I  want  a  wire 
sent  at  once  by  someone  who  can  be  trusted." 
He  handed  me  a  form  and  I  wrote  out  a  tele- 
gram to  Lumley  at  the  Albany,  saying  that  I 
proposed  to  call  upon  him  that  evening  at  8 
sharp,  and  asking  him  to  receive  me. 

"Next?"  said  Felix. 

"Next  and  last,  I  want  a  room  with  a  door 
which  will  lock,  a  hot  bath,  and  something  to 

184 


I  FIND  SANCTUARY 

eat  about  seven.  I  might  be  permitted  to  taste 
Monsieur  Alphonse's  new  casserole  dish." 

I  rang  up  Macgillivray,  reminded  him  of 
his  promise,  and  told  him  what  awaited  him 
at  9.30.  Then  I  had  a  wash,  and  afterwards  at 
my  leisure  gave  Felix  a  sketch  of  the  day's 
doings.  I  have  never  felt  more  completely  at 
my  ease,  for  whatever  happened  I  was  certain 
that  I  had  spoiled  Lumley's  game.  He  would 
know  by  now  that  I  had  reached  the  Embassy, 
and  that  any  further  attempts  on  my  life  and 
liberty  were  futile.  My  telegram  would 
show  him  that  I  was  prepared  to  offer  terms, 
and  I  would  certainly  be  permitted  to  reach 
the  Albany  unmolested.  To  the  meeting  with 
my  adversary  I  looked  forward  without 
qualms,  but  with  the  most  lively  interest.  I 
had  my  own  theories  about  that  distinguished 
criminal,  and  I  hoped  to  bring  them  to  the 
proof. 

Just  before  seven  I  had  a  reply  to  my  wire. 
Mr.  Lumley  said  he  would  be  delighted  to  see 
me.  The  telegram  was  directed  to  me  at  the 
Embassy,  though  I  had  put  no  address  on 

185 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

the  one  I  sent.  Lumley  of  course  knew  all 
my  movements.  I  could  picture  him  sitting 
in  his  chair,  like  some  Chief  of  Staff,  receiv- 
ing every  few  minutes  the  reports  of  his 
agents.  All  the  same  Napoleon  had  fought 
his  Waterloo. 


86 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  POWER-HOUSE 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  POWER-HOUSE 

I  LEFT  Belgrave  Square  about  a  quarter 
to  eight  and  retraced  my  steps  along  the 
route  which  for  me  that  afternoon  had  been 
so  full  of  tremors.  I  was  still  being  watched 
— a  little  observation  told  me  that — but  I 
would  not  be  interfered  with,  provided  my 
way  lay  in  a  certain  direction.  So  completely 
without  nervousness  was  I  that  at  the  top  of 
Constitution  Hill  I  struck  into  the  Green 
Park  and  kept  to  the  grass  till  I  emerged  into 
Piccadilly,  opposite  Devonshire  House.  A 
light  wind  had  risen  and  the  evening  had 
grown  pleasantly  cool.  I  met  several  men  I 
knew  going  out  to  dinner  on  foot  and  stopped 
to  exchange  greetings.  From  my  clothes  they 
thought  I  had  just  returned  from  a  day  in 
the  country. 

I  reached  the  Albany  as  the  clock  was  strik- 
189 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

ing  eight.  Lumley's  rooms  were  on  the  first 
floor,  and  I  was  evidently  expected,  for  the 
porter  himself  conducted  me  to  them  and 
waited  by  me  till  the  door  was  opened  by  a 
man-servant. 

You  know  those  rococo,  late  Georgian  Al- 
bany rooms,  large,  square,  clumsily  corniced. 
Lumley's  was  lined  with  books,  which  I  saw 
at  a  glance  were  of  a  different  type  from  those 
in  his  working  library  at  his  country  house. 
This  was  the  collection  of  a  bibliophile,  and 
in  the  light  of  the  summer  evening  the  rows 
of  tall  volumes  in  vellum  and  morocco  lined 
the  walls  like  some  rich  tapestry. 

The  valet  retired  and  shut  the  door,  and 
presently  from  a  little  inner  chamber  came  his 
master.  He  was  dressed  for  dinner  and  wore 
more  than  ever  the  air  of  the  eminent  diplo- 
mat. Again  I  had  the  old  feeling  of  incre- 
dulity. It  was  the  Lumley  I  had  met  two 
nights  before  at  dinner,  the  friend  of  Viceroys 
and  Cabinet  Ministers.  It  was  hard  to  con- 
nect him  with  Antioch  Street  or  the  red- 
haired  footman  with  a  pistol.    Or  with  Tuke? 

190 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

Yes,  I  decided,  Tuke  fitted  into  the  frame. 
Both  were  brains  cut  loose  from  the  decencies 
that  make  life  possible. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Leithen,"  he  said 
pleasantly.  "As  you  have  fixed  the  hour  of 
eight,  may  I  offer  you  dinner?" 

"Thank  you,"  I  replied,  "but  I  have  already 
dined.  I  have  chosen  an  awkward  time,  but 
my  business  need  not  take  long." 

"So,"  he  said.  "I  am  always  glad  to  see 
you  at  any  hour." 

"And  I  prefer  to  see  the  master  rather  than 
the  subordinates  who  have  been  infesting  my 
life  during  the  past  week." 

We  both  laughed.  "I  am  afraid  you  have 
had  some  annoyance,  Mr.  Leithen,"  he  said. 
"But  remember,  I  gave  you  fair  warning." 

"True.  And  I  have  come  to  do  the  same 
kindness  to  you.  That  part  of  the  game,  at 
any  rate,  is  over." 

"Over?"  he  queried,  raising  his  eyebrows. 

"Yes,  over,"  I  said,  and  took  out  my  watch. 
"Let  us  be  quite  frank  with  each  other,  Mr. 
Lumley.    There  is  really  very  little  time  to 

191 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

waste.  As  you  have  doubtless  read  the  paper 
which  you  stole  from  my  friend  this  morning 
you  know  more  or  less  the  extent  of  my  in- 
formation." 

"Let  us  have  frankness  by  all  means.  Yes, 
I  have  read  your  paper.  A  very  creditable 
piece  of  work,  if  I  may  say  so.  You  will  rise 
in  your  profession,  Mr.  Leithen.  But  surely 
you  must  realise  that  it  carries  you  a  very  lit- 
tle way." 

"In  a  sense  you  are  right.  I  am  not  in  a 
position  to  reveal  the  full  extent  of  your  mis- 
deeds. Of  the  Power-House  and  its  doings  I 
can  only  guess.  But  Pitt-Heron  is  on  his  way 
home,  and  he  will  be  carefully  safeguarded 
on  that  journey.  Your  creature,  Saronov,  has 
confessed.  We  shall  know  more  very  soon, 
and  meantime  I  have  clear  evidence  which 
implicates  you  in  a  conspiracy  to  murder." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  I  wished  I  could 
see  behind  his  tinted  spectacles  to  the  look  in 
his  eyes.  I  think  he  had  not  been  quite  pre- 
pared for  the  line  I  took. 

"I  need  not  tell  you  as  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Lei- 
192 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

then,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  what  seems  good 
evidence  on  paper  is  often  feeble  enough  in 
Court.  You  cannot  suppose  that  I  will  tame- 
ly plead  guilty  to  your  charges.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  will  fight  them  with  all  the  force  that 
brains  and  money  can  give.  You  are  an  in- 
genious young  man,  but  you  are  not  the  bright- 
est jewel  of  the  English  Bar." 

"That  also  is  true.  I  do  not  deny  that  some 
of  my  evidence  may  be  weakened  at  the  trial. 
It  is  even  conceivable  that  you  may  be  ac- 
quitted on  some  technical  doubt.  But  you 
have  forgotten  one  thing.  From  the  day  you 
leave  the  Court  you  will  be  a  suspected  man. 
The  police  of  all  Europe  will  be  on  your 
trail.  You  have  been  highly  successful  in  the 
past,  and  why?  Because  you  have  been  above 
suspicion,  an  honourable  and  distinguished 
gentleman,  belonging  to  the  best  clubs,  count- 
ing as  your  acquaintances  the  flower  of  our 
society.  Now  you  will  be  a  suspect,  a  man 
with  a  past,  a  centre  of  strange  stories.  I  put 
it  to  you — how  far  are  you  likely  to  succeed 
under  these  conditions?" 

193 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

He  laughed. 

"You  have  a  talent  for  character  drawing, 
my  friend.  What  makes  you  think  that  I  can 
work  only  if  I  live  in  the  limelight  of  popu- 
larity?" 

"The  talent  you  mentioned,"  I  said.  "As  I 
read  your  character — and  I  think  I  am  right 
— you  are  an  artist  in  crime.  You  are  not  the 
common  cut-throat  who  acts  out  of  passion  or 
greed.  No,  I  think  you  are  something  subtler 
than  that.  You  love  power,  hidden  power. 
You  flatter  your  vanity  by  despising  mankind 
and  making  them  your  tools.  You  scorn  the 
smattering  of  inaccuracies  which  passes  for 
human  knowledge,  and  I  will  not  venture  to 
say  you  are  wrong.  Therefore  you  use  your 
brains  to  frustrate  it.  Unhappily  the  life  of 
millions  is  built  on  that  smattering,  so  you  are 
a  foe  to  society.  But  there  would  be  no  fla- 
vour in  controlling  subterranean  things  if  you 
were  yourself  a  mole  working  in  the  dark. 
To  get  the  full  flavour,  the  irony  of  it  all, 
you  must  live  in  the  light.  I  can  imagine  you 
laughing  in  your  soul  as  you  move  about  our 

194 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

world,  praising  it  with  your  lips,  patting  it 
with  your  hands,  and  kicking  its  props  away 
with  your  feet.  I  can  see  the  chami  of  it. 
But  it  is  over  now." 

"Over?"  he  asked. 

"Over,"  I  repeated.  "The  end  has  come — 
the  utter,  final  and  absolute  end." 

He  made  a  sudden,  odd,  nervous  move- 
ment, pushing  his  glasses  close  back  upon  his 
eyes. 

"What  about  yourself?"  he  said  hoarsely. 
"Do  you  think  you  can  play  against  me  with- 
out suffering  desperate  penalties?" 

He  was  holding  a  cord  in  his  hand  with  a 
knob  on  the  end  of  it.  He  now  touched  a 
button  in  the  knob  and  there  came  the  faint 
sound  of  a  bell. 

The  door  was  behind  me  and  he  was  look- 
ing beyond  me  towards  it.  I  was  entirely  at 
his  mercy,  but  I  never  budged  an  inch.  I  do 
not  know  how  I  managed  to  keep  calm,  but  I 
did  it,  and  without  much  effort.  I  went  on 
speaking,  conscious  that  the  door  had  opened 
and  that  someone  was  at  my  back. 

195 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

"It  is  really  quite  useless  trying  to  frighten 
me.  I  am  safe,  because  I  am  dealing  with  an 
intelligent  man  and  not  with  the  ordinary 
half-witted  criminal.  You  do  not  want  my 
life  in  silly  revenge.  If  you  call  in  your  men 
and  strangle  me  between  you  what  earthly 
good  would  it  do  you?" 

He  was  looking  beyond  me  and  the  passion 
— a  sudden  white-hot  passion  like  an  epilepsy 
— was  dying  out  of  his  face. 

"A  mistake,  James,"  he  said.     "You  can 

go." 

The  door  closed  softly  at  my  back. 

"Yes.  A  mistake.  I  have  a  considerable 
admiration  for  you,  Mr.  Lumley,  and  should 
be  sorry  to  be  disappointed." 

He  laughed  quite  like  an  ordinary  mortal. 
"I  am  glad  this  affair  is  to  be  conducted  on  a 
basis  of  mutual  respect.  Now  that  the  melo- 
dramatic overture  is  finished,  let  us  get  to 
the  business." 

"By  all  means,"  I  said.  "I  promised  to 
deal  with  you  frankly.  Well,  let  me  put  my 
last  cards  on  the  table.    At  half-past  nine  pre- 

196 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

cisely  the  duplicate  of  that  statement  of  mine 
which  you  annexed  this  morning  will  be 
handed  to  Scotland  Yard.  I  may  add  that  the 
authorities  there  know  me,  and  are  proceed- 
ing under  my  advice.  When  they  read  that 
statement  they  will  act  on  it.  You  have  there- 
fore about  one  and  a  half,  or  say  one  and 
three-quarter  hours  to  make  up  your  mind. 
You  can  still  secure  your  freedom,  but  it  must 
be  elsewhere  than  in  England." 

He  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  was  pacing  up 
and  down  the  room. 

"Will  you  oblige  me  by  telling  me  one 
thing,"  he  said.  "If  you  believe  me  to  be,  as 
you  say,  a  dangerous  criminal,  how  do  you 
reconcile  it  with  your  conscience  to  give  me  a 
chance  of  escape?  It  is  your  duty  to  bring  me 
to  justice." 

"I  will  tell  you  why,"  I  said.  "I,  too,  have 
a  weak  joint  in  my  armour.  Yours  is  that  you 
only  succeed  under  the  disguise  of  high  re- 
spectability. That  disguise,  in  any  case,  will 
be  stripped  from  you.  Mine  is  Pitt-Heron. 
I  do  not  know  how  far  he  has  entangled  him- 

197 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

self  with  you,  but  I  know  something  of  his 
weakness,  and  I  don't  want  his  career  ruined 
and  his  wife's  heart  broken.  He  has  learned 
his  lesson,  and  will  never  mention  you  and 
your  schemes  to  a  mortal  soul.  Indeed,  if  I 
can  help  it,  he  will  never  know  that  anyone 
shares  his  secret.  The  price  of  the  chance  of 
escape  I  offer  you  is  that  Pitt-Heron's  past 
be  buried  for  ever." 

He  did  not  answer.  He  had  his  arms 
folded,  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  and 
suddenly  seemed  to  have  aged  enormously. 
I  had  the  impression  that  I  was  dealing  with 
a  very  old  man. 

"Mr.  Leithen,"  he  said  at  last,  "you  are 
bold.  You  have  a  frankness  which  almost 
amounts  to  genius.  You  are  wasted  in  your 
stupid  profession,  but  your  speculative  powers 
are  not  equal  to  your  other  endowments,  so 
you  will  probably  remain  in  it,  deterred  by  an 
illogical  scruple  from  following  your  true 
bent.  Your  true  metier,  believe  me,  is  what 
shallow  people  call  crime.  Speaking  'with- 
out prejudice,'  as  the  idiot  solicitors  say,  it 

198 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

would  appear  that  we  have  both  weak  spots 
in  our  cases.  Mine,  you  say,  is  that  I  can  only 
work  by  using  the  conventions  of  what  we 
agreed  to  call  the  Machine.  There  may  be 
truth  in  that.  Yours  is  that  you  have  a  friend 
who  lacks  your  iron-clad  discretion.  You 
offer  a  plan  which  saves  both  our  weaknesses. 
By  the  way,  what  is  it?" 

I  looked  at  my  watch  again.  "You  have 
ample  time  to  catch  the  night  express  to 
Paris." 

"And  if  not?" 

"Then  I  am  afraid  there  may  be  trouble 
with  the  police  between  ten  and  eleven 
o'clock." 

"Which  for  all  our  sakes  would  be  a  pity. 
Do  you  know  you  interest  me  uncommonly, 
for  you  confirm  the  accuracy  of  my  judgment. 
I  have  always  had  a  notion  that  some  day  I 
should  run  across  to  my  sorrow  just  such  a 
man  as  you.  A  man  of  very  great  intellectual 
power  I  can  deal  with,  for  that  kind  of  brain 
is  usually  combined  with  the  sort  of  high- 
strung  imagination  on  which  I  can  work.  The 

199 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

same  with  your  over-imaginative  man.  Yes 
Pitt-Heron  was  of  that  type.  Ordinary  brains 
do  not  trouble  me,  for  I  puzzle  them.  Now 
you  are  a  man  of  good  average  intelligence. 
Pray  forgive  the  lukewarmness  of  the  phrase; 
it  is  really  a  high  compliment,  for  I  am 
an  austere  critic.  If  you  were  that  and  no 
more  you  would  not  have  succeeded.  But  you 
possess  also  a  quite  irrelevant  gift  of  imagina- 
tion. Not  enough  to  upset  your  balance,  but 
enough  to  do  what  your  mere  lawyer's  talent 
could  never  have  done.  You  have  achieved  a 
feat  which  is  given  to  few — you  have  partially 
understood  me.  Believe  me,  I  rate  you  high. 
You  are  the  kind  of  four-square  being  bedded 
in  the  concrete  of  our  civilisation,  on  whom  I 
have  always  felt  I  might  some  day  come  to 
grief.  .  .  .  No,  no,  I  am  not  trying  to  wheedle 
you.  If  I  thought  I  could  do  that  I  should  be 
sorry,  for  my  discernment  would  have  been  at 
fault" 

"I  warn  you,"  I  said,  "that  you  are  wasting 
precious  time." 

He  laughed  quite  cheerfully. 
200 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

"I  believe  you  are  really  anxious  about  my 
interests,"  he  said.  "That  is  a  triumph  in- 
deed. Do  you  know,  Mr.  Leithen,  it  is  a  mere 
whimsy  of  fate  that  you  are  not  my  disciple. 
If  we  had  met  earlier  and  under  other  circum- 
stances I  should  have  captured  you.  It  is  be- 
cause you  have  in  you  a  capacity  for  disciple- 
ship  that  you  have  succeeded  in  your  opposi- 
tion." 

"I  abominate  you  and  all  your  works,"  I 
said,  "but  I  admire  your  courage." 

He  shook  his  head  gently. 

"It  is  the  wrong  word.  I  am  not  cour- 
ageous. To  be  brave  means  that  you  have 
conquered  fear,  but  I  have  never  had  any  fear 
to  conquer.  Believe  me,  Mr.  Leithen,  I  am 
quite  impervious  to  threats.  You  come  to  me 
to-night  and  hold  a  pistol  to  my  head.  You 
offer  me  two  alternatives,  both  of  which  mean 
failure.  But  how  do  you  know  that  I  regard 
them  as  failure?  I  have  had  what  they  call  a 
good  run  for  my  money.  No  man  since  Na- 
poleon has  tasted  such  power.  I  may  be  will- 
ing to  end  it.    Age  creeps  on  and  power  may 

20 1 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

grow  burdensome.  I  have  always  sat  loose 
from  common  ambitions  and  common  affec- 
tions. For  all  you  know  I  may  regard  you  as 
a  benefactor." 

All  this  talk  looks  futile  when  it  is  written 
down,  but  it  was  skilful  enough,  for  it  was 
taking  every  atom  of  exhilaration  out  of  my 
victory.  It  was  not  idle  brag.  Every  syllable 
rang  true,  as  I  knew  in  my  bones.  I  felt  my- 
self in  the  presence  of  something  enormously 
big,  as  if  a  small  barbarian  was  desecrating 
the  colossal  Zeus  of  Pheidias  with  a  coal  ham- 
mer. But  I  also  felt  it  inhuman,  and  I  hated 
it  and  I  clung  to  that  hatred. 

"You  fear  nothing  and  you  believe  noth- 
ing, I  said.  "Man,  you  should  never  have 
been  allowed  to  live." 

He  raised  a  deprecating  hand.  "I  am  a 
sceptic  about  most  things,"  he  said,  "but,  be- 
lieve me,  I  have  my  own  worship.  I  venerate 
the  intellect  of  man.  I  believe  in  its  un- 
dreamed-of possibilities,  when  it  grows  free 
like  an  oak  in  the  forest  and  is  not  dwarfed 
in  a  flower-pot.    From  that  allegiance  I  have 

202 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

never  wavered.  That  is  the  God  I  have  never 
forsworn." 

I  took  out  my  watch. 

"Permit  me  again  to  remind  you  that  time 
presses." 

"True,"  he  said  smiling,  "the  continental 
express  will  not  wait  upon  my  confession. 
Your  plan  is  certainly  conceivable.  There 
may  be  other  and  easier  ways.  I  am  not  cer- 
tain. I  must  think.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  would  be 
wiser  if  you  left  me  now,  Mr.  Leithen.  If  I 
take  your  advice  there  will  be  various  things 
to  do.  .  .  .  In  any  case  there  will  be  much 
to  do.  .  .  ." 

He  led  me  to  the  door  as  if  he  were  an 
ordinary  host  speeding  an  ordinary  guest.  I 
remember  that  on  my  way  he  pointed  out  a 
set  of  Aldines  and  called  my  attention  to  their 
beauty.  He  shook  hands  quite  cordially  and 
remarked  on  the  fineness  of  the  weather. 
That  was  the  last  I  saw  of  this  amazing  man. 

It  was  with  profound  relief  that  I  found 
myself  in  Piccadilly  in  the  wholesome  com- 
pany of  my  kind.    I  had  carried  myself  boldly 

203 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

enough  in  the  last  hour,  but  I  would  not  have 
gone  through  it  again  for  a  king's  ransom. 
Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  deal  with  a  pure 
intelligence,  a  brain  stripped  of  every  shred 
of  humanity?  It  is  like  being  in  the  company 
of  a  snake. 

I  drove  to  the  club  and  telephoned  to  Mac- 
gillivray,  asking  him  to  take  no  notice  of  my 
statement  till  he  heard  from  me  in  the  morn- 
ing. Then  I  went  to  the  hospital  to  see  Chap- 
man. 

That  leader  of  the  people  was  in  a  furious 
temper  and  he  was  scarcely  to  be  appeased  by 
my  narrative  of  the  day's  doings.  Your  La- 
bour Member  is  the  greatest  of  all  sticklers 
for  legality,  and  the  outrage  he  had  suffered 
that  morning  had  grievously  weakened  his 
trust  in  public  security.  The  Antioch  Street 
business  had  seemed  to  him  eminently  right; 
if  you  once  got  mixed  up  in  melodrama  you 
had  to  expect  such  things.  But  for  a  Member 
of  Parliament  to  be  robbed  in  broad  daylight 
next  door  to  the  House  of  Commons  upset  the 
foundations  of  his  faith.    There  was  little  the 

204 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

matter  with  his  body  and  the  doctor  promised 
that  he  would  be  allowed  up  next  day,  but  his 
soul  was  a  mass  of  bruises. 

It  took  me  a  lot  of  persuasion  to  get  him  to 
keep  quiet.  He  wanted  a  public  exposure  of 
Lumley,  a  big  trial,  a  general  ferreting  out 
of  secret  agents,  the  whole  winding  up  with  a 
speech  in  Parliament  by  himself  on  this  last 
outrage  of  Capitalism.  Gloomily  he  listened 
to  my  injunctions  to  silence.  But  he  saw  the 
reason  of  it  and  promised  to  hold  his  tongue 
out  of  loyalty  to  Tommy.  I  knew  that  Pitt- 
Heron's  secret  was  safe  with  him. 

As  I  crossed  Westminster  Bridge  on  my 
way  home  the  night  express  to  the  Continent 
rumbled  over  the  river.  I  wondered  if  Lum- 
ley was  on  board  or  if  he  had  taken  one  of  the 
other  ways  of  which  he  had  spoken. 


205 


CHAPTER  IX 
RETURN  OF  THE  WILD  GEESE 


CHAPTER  IX 

RETURN  OF  THE  WILD  GEESE 

I  DO  not  think  I  was  surprised  at  the  news 
I  read  in  The  Times  next  morning. 
Mr.  Andrew  Lumley  had  died  suddenly  in 
the  night  of  heart  failure,  and  the  newspapers 
woke  up  to  the  fact  that  we  had  been  enter- 
taining a  great  man  unawares.  There  was  an 
obituary  in  "leader"  type  of  nearly  two  col- 
umns. He  had  been  older  than  I  thought — 
close  on  seventy — and  The  Times  spoke  of 
him  as  a  man  who  might  have  done  anything 
he  pleased  in  public  life,  but  had  chosen  to 
give  to  a  small  coterie  of  friends  what  was 
due  to  the  country.  I  read  of  his  wit  and 
learning,  his  amazing  connoisseurship,  his  so- 
cial gifts,  his  personal  charm.  According  to 
the  writer,  he  was  the  finest  type  of  cultivated 
amateur,  a  Beckford  with  more  than  a  Beck- 
ford's  wealth  and  none  of  his  folly.     Large 

209 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

private  charities  were  hinted  at,  and  a  hope 
was  expressed  that  some  part  at  least  of  his 
collections  might  come  to  the  nation. 

The  halfpenny  papers  said  the  same  thing 
in  their  own  way.  One  declared  he  reminded 
it  of  Atticus,  another  of  Maecenas,  another  of 
Lord  Houghton.  There  must  have  been  a 
great  run  on  biographical  dictionaries  in  the 
various  offices.  Chapman's  own  particular 
rag  said  that,  although  this  kind  of  philan- 
thropist was  a  dilettante  and  a  back-number, 
yet  Mr.  Lumley  was  a  good  specimen  of  the 
class  and  had  been  a  true  friend  to  the  poor. 
I  thought  Chapman  would  have  a  fit  when  he 
read  this.  After  that  he  took  in  the  Morning 
Post. 

It  was  no  business  of  mine  to  explode  the 
myth.  Indeed  I  couldn't  even  if  I  had  wanted 
to,  for  no  one  would  have  believed  me  unless 
I  produced  proofs,  and  these  proofs  were  not 
to  be  made  public.  Besides  I  had  an  honest 
compunction.  He  had  had,  as  he  expressed 
it,  a  good  run  for  his  money,  and  I  wanted  the 
run  to  be  properly  rounded  off. 

210 


RETURN  OF  THE  WILD  GEESE 

Three  days  later  I  went  to  the  funeral.  It 
was  a  wonderful  occasion.  Two  eminent 
statesmen  were  among  the  pallbearers,  Roy- 
alty was  represented,  and  there  were  wreaths 
from  learned  societies  and  scores  of  notable 
people.  It  was  a  queer  business  to  listen  to 
that  stately  service  which  was  never  read  over 
stranger  dust.  I  was  thinking  all  the  time  of 
the  vast  subterranean  machine  which  he  had 
controlled,  and  which  now  was  so  much  old 
iron.  I  could  dimly  imagine  what  his  death 
meant  to  the  hosts  who  had  worked  blindly 
at  his  direction.  He  was  a  Napoleon  who  left 
no  Marshals  behind  him.  From  the  Power- 
House  came  no  wreaths  or  newspaper  trib- 
utes, but  I  knew  that  it  had  lost  its  power.  .  .  . 

De  mortuis,  etc.  My  task  was  done,  and  it 
only  remained  to  get  Pitt-Heron  home. 

Of  the  three  people  in  London  besides  my- 
self who  knew  the  story — Macgiilivray,  Chap- 
man and  Felix — the  two  last  might  be  trusted 
to  be  silent,  and  Scotland  Yard  is  not  in  the 
habit  of  publishing  its  information.  Tommy, 
of  course,  must  some  time  or  other  be  told;  it 

211 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

was  his  right;  but  I  knew  that  Tommy  would 
never  breathe  a  word  of  it.  I  wanted  Charles 
to  believe  that  his  secret  died  with  Lumley, 
for  otherwise  I  don't  think  he  would  have 
ever  come  back  to  England. 

The  thing  took  some  arranging,  for  we 
could  not  tell  him  directly  about  Lumley's 
death  without  giving  away  the  fact  that  we 
knew  of  the  connection  between  the  two.  We 
had  to  approach  it  by  a  roundabout  road.  I 
got  Felix  to  arrange  to  have  the  news  tele- 
graphed to  and  inserted  by  special  order  in  a 
Russian  paper  which  Charles  could  not  avoid 
seeing. 

The  device  was  successful.  Calling  at 
Portman  Square  a  few  days  later  I  learned 
from  Ethel  Pitt-Heron's  glowing  face  that 
her  troubles  were  over.  That  same  evening  a 
cable  to  me  from  Tommy  announced  the  re- 
turn of  the  wanderers. 

It  was  the  year  of  the  Chilian  Arbitration, 
in  which  I  held  a  junior  brief  for  the  British 

212 


RETURN  OF  THE  WILD  GEESE 

Government,  and  that  and  the  late  sitting  of 
Parliament  kept  me  in  London  after  the  end 
of  the  term.  I  had  had  a  bad  reaction  from 
the  excitements  of  the  summer,  and  in  these 
days  I  was  feeling  pretty  well  hipped  and 
overdone.  On  a  hot  August  afternoon  I  met 
Tommy  again. 

The  sun  was  shining  through  my  Temple 
chambers,  much  as  it  had  done  when  he 
started.  So  far  as  I  remember  the  West  Ham 
brief  which  had  aroused  his  contempt  was 
still  adorning  my  table.  I  was  very  hot  and 
cross  and  fagged,  for  I  had  been  engaged  in 
the  beastly  job  of  comparing  half  a  dozen 
maps  of  a  despicable  little  bit  of  South  Amer- 
ican frontier. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  Tommy, 
lean  and  sunburnt,  stalked  in. 

"Still  at  the  old  grind,"  he  cried,  after  we 
had  shaken  hands.  "Fellows  like  you  give  me 
a  notion  of  the  meaning  of  Eternity." 

"The  same  uneventful  sedentary  life,"  I  re- 
plied.    "Nothing   happens   except  that  my 

213 


THE  POWER-HOUSE 

scale  of  fees  grows.  I  suppose  nothing  will 
happen  till  the  conductor  comes  to  take  the 
tickets.    I  shall  soon  grow  fat." 

"I  notice  it  already,  my  lad.  You  want  a 
bit  of  waking  up  or  you'll  get  a  liver.  A  little 
sensation  would  do  you  a  lot  of  good." 

"And  you?"  I  asked.  "I  congratulate  you 
on  your  success.  I  hear  you  have  retrieved 
Pitt-Heron  for  his  mourning  family." 

Tommy's  laughing  eyes  grew  solemn. 

"I  have  had  the  time  of  my  life,"  he  said. 
"It  was  like  a  chapter  out  of  the  Arabian 
Nights  with  a  dash  of  Fenimore  Cooper.  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  lived  years  since  I  left  Eng- 
land in  May.  While  you  have  been  sitting 
among  your  musty  papers  we  have  been  rid- 
ing like  moss-troopers  and  seeing  men  die. 
Come  and  dine  to-night  and  hear  about  our 
adventures.  I  can't  tell  you  the  full  story,  for 
I  don't  know  it,  but  there  is  enough  to  curl 
your  hair." 

Then  I  achieved  my  first  and  last  score  at 
the  expense  of  Tommy  Deloraine. 

214 


RETURN  OF  THE  WILD  GEESE 

"No,"  I  said,  "you  will  dine  with  me  in- 
stead and  /  will  tell  you  the  full  story.  All 
the  papers  on  the  subject  are  over  there  in  my 
safe." 


THE   END 


215 


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